Do you even care?
by codename.penguin
Summary: Sherlock's brain may be abnormal but there's nothing wrong with his heart. A collection of short stories.
1. A forgiveable mistake

Chapter 1- **A forgivable mistake**

John had been staring morosely at his computer screen for the last half hour, trying desperately not to panic. He then eyed the unpaid bills that were neatly stacked into a frightening large pile at the side. He would have to sell a kidney to get out of these debts!

It was a lovely night out and a cool breeze swept through the open window where John had set up a tiny writing table, to get away from whenever his flatmate was in a frenzy of 'discovery', or the middle of an investigation. Sherlock gave new meaning to the word pacing.

It hadn't been easy last time to approach the topic of a loan with his tactless roommate, and neither was it any easier this time, but there was no other choice. The consulting detective had received close to 25,000 pounds two weeks ago for solving the case of the 'Blind Banker'. Surely he couldn't have spent it all already. The gentle doctor summoned all of his remaining patience and held on to it tightly.

'Sherlock,' he called out quietly, 'can I…can I talk to you for a minute?'

His tall colleague was sitting across the room, staring into the fire, deep in silent thought.

'Certainly,' he replied carelessly, 'you can speak to me for more than one minute if you would like.'

Right.

It always gave John a small smile when the man bungled common terms. It made him seem more likeable.

The doctor opened his mouth but no sound came out. It had been a dreadful day that started with a stomach twisting shouting match with Sarah, and John honestly didn't think he could end it sitting through a conversation with Sherlock. God only knew what humiliating insult would roll off the man's acid tongue. Perhaps this mortifying situation would be best tackled on a good night's sleep and a hot breakfast.

Decision made, he closed his computer.

'It can wait,' the doctor murmured as he picked up his belongings and prepared to leave the room, 'Good night.'

'John?' Sherlock called out in confusion as the doctor quickened his pace, eager now to escape to the confines of his room.

The small man had collapsed face down on his bed, fully dressed; luxuriating in the softness and smell of his clean sheets when he heard the first scratch at his door. People always took these small gifts for granted, but not John and not any soldier longing for a glimpse of home.

However, the doctor raised his head when he heard his name being called.

'What?!' he said in a bit of sharper voice than he intended, when Sherlock opened the door and stuck his curly head in.

'I was just about to ask you the same question,' the other replied mildly, not at all put out by his unfriendly tone.

Sherlock walked in and sat on the edge of a chair, looking so dreadfully uncomfortable, that John had to stifle a hysterical round of laughter.

The man had left the door open and the light fell in a thick bar across the floor and part of the bed but it was enough for them to see each other. After a minute when Sherlock didn't leave or offer any other trying-on-the nerves exclamations, John obligingly turned to face his visitor, tucking a pillow under his stomach to give him some height.

'I got let go from the clinic today,' he confessed, feeling glad for the semi darkness so that the flush of shame across his cheeks went unnoticed

'Are you sure?' Sherlock asked bizarrely.

'Of course I'm sure,' John snapped back testily. It wasn't like his detective roommate to ask such a silly question and reflexively his insides clenched in anticipation of the expected insult.

Of course Sherlock didn't disappoint.

The slim young man snorted in disdain, 'I told you that Sarah woman was a MORON! Why you bother to ever question my judgement is beyond my understanding.'

What? Hang on…

'Don't call her that!' he said sharply.

Sherlock's eyes glinted malevolently in the gloom. 'Why not? I reserve the right to insult anyone who upsets you.'

'She is not a moron!' John insisted, shaking his head to clear his thoughts, taken by surprise by Sherlock's fury. 'I haven't been exactly pulling my weight at the office. It's not her fault.'

'Of course she's a moron!' Sherlock interrupted him with a disgusted look, 'Gifted, talented doctors do not work in quiet little clinics. She should have fought to keep you on staff.'

John was floored by Sherlock's words of praise.

'You think I'm talented?'

'I do.'

'Oh...I don't know…thanks. Thanks for saying that. Sorry that I'm nattering on like this, but yesterday you called me "exceptionally dense".

'You're that too,' Sherlock informed him unforgivingly, to which John could only sigh in his heart. He should be use to his new room mate by now but sometimes it was hard to understand how anyone could be so enormously insensitive.

'But I am glad,' the man continued in a flat voice, unaware as he always was that he was giving offense, 'it is a bloody nuisance to turn around and realise you are not where I left you.'

John pressed his lips in annoyance at these sentiments. He was a mild mannered man, but being referred to like a load of laundry did tend to make one a tad irritated.

'Well,' Sherlock sprang out of his seat looking relieved that it was all over… 'this was nice. We should do it again.'

The doctor sat up in dismay when he realised his flatmate was ready to dart off. Sherlock's face fell when he saw the small man's look of unhappiness.

'John…I beg of you,' the man pleaded as he started to agitatedly pace the small room, 'speak quickly and succinctly…if you cannot, release me from this present torture.'

'I need money,' John bawled out before he could stop himself.

'For God's sake John,' Sherlock whirled on him in disgusted disbelief, 'is that what all these dramatics are about? That's why you have been staring at your computer for 36 minutes?!'

John swallowed hard as Sherlock loomed over him with a sneer. This was awful. He wanted to crawl under the bed and just die rather than speak again.

'Have you spent all the money from the last case?' he asked meekly as the detective sat back down and opened the computer to log into the internet

'Almost…' Sherlock said absently as his thin long fingers flew over the keyboard accessing his online bank details.

Oh.

The detective turned the device around and put it in his hands, 'I just changed the password. It's your birthday spelt out backwards. Take as much as you want from any of my accounts.'

John looked down at the figures blindly. His roommate didn't have much left. The money was all but gone.

Shit!

He moved the cursor listlessly down the rows of neat figures. In spite of this disappointing turn of events, John wanted to tell Sherlock how much he appreciated the gesture, but he didn't know how to do so without flustering his mate into a moody silence. It was not everyday, that a new friend gave you unconditional access to their meager funds, urging you to help yourself. Mycroft was dead right about John in that the doctor had chosen, of all people, to trust Sherlock but that was only because his younger brother had trusted him first. Sherlock had seen some invisible quality in him and within the space of one conversation had wanted John at his side.

'Oh, right…and that's you there,' the detective suddenly announced pointing to the screen.

There was a folder right at the bottom of the list named Watson, and the depressed ex-army captain clicked on it.

'Oh Christ…are you crying? Why? What did I do?! Look…just stop that …or I am going to leave,' Sherlock added threateningly, appalled by the quiet sniffs coming from his gentle room mate.

'I'll make tea!' the tall man cried out in panic as he shot straight out of his seat, 'I'll cook!'

'Calm down,' John berated him sternly, wiping his eyes on his sleeve, 'you didn't do anything wrong. I'm a little…'

'…tired?' Sherlock suggested eagerly. 'Yes...you're tired…you need to rest…excellent…excellent. GOOD NIGHT!

And with those words thrown over his shoulder, the man hurriedly sprinted for the door.

John snorted with soft laughter at the man's sudden disappearance. Sherlock was such a nut case at times. He knew he shouldn't laugh, but the way his big brained friend handled emotions was just too funny at times.

With a deep sigh of relief and incredulity, the small doctor once again turned to stare in shock at the 12,500 pounds that Sherlock had apparently set aside for him.

Why hadn't the detective told him? Why hadn't he told him that he split the payment for the consultation in two? Right down the middle, as if this was the only choice that Sherlock could make.

It didn't matter. This was one mistake that John was more than willing to forgive.


	2. You are not welcome

Chapter 2- **You are not welcome**

'Tell me John, why it is that you know that today is Lestrade's birthday?' Sherlock requested sneeringly as he pulled on his black leather gloves.

'Is this one of those bits of useless rubbish that people usually fill their heads with?' his flat mate asked instead, as he buttoned up his jacket.

'You said it, not I,' the tall man muttered, as he stalked towards the door, aggravation outlined in every swish of his high collar coat. John shook his head in exasperation, now a little concerned that Sherlock would do something foolish and embarrassing once they arrived at the small, surprise office party that was being planned.

'Don't be like that. Sherlock, please….' he began using his most persuasive voice, as he caught up to his friend at the door.

If not for the fast reflexes honed during the war, it was almost sure that he would have been knocked unconscious when his detective colleague abruptly grabbed his arm and pelted him into the coat closet.

However, before John could even suck in a breath to let rip a bellow of outrage, Sherlock commanded him in a tight whisper to stay down.

Oh god.

Oh god.

There was no time to think as the ex-army captain fumbled around in the dark, trying to find anything that could be used as a weapon.

Every molecule of his being was screaming at him to get out there and help Sherlock but ruthlessly he beat it down. For a few precious seconds they would have the element of surprise on the intruder; a few seconds that could mean all the difference in the world.

The doctor almost sobbed with relief as his hand closed upon a wire coat hanger and his nimble fingers worked quickly to unbend the metal. In the meantime, he strained his ears to monitor what was going on just outside his sanctuary, preparing himself to rush forward on Sherlock's word.

Who was it?!

Some enemy of Sherlock's most certainly. He could tell that much from the strain in the man's voice as he told him to stay down.

In the terrifying seconds while he waited, the small doctor desperately tried to remember the evening they had spent together. Did they argue? The sudden rush of adrenaline made the memory blurry but he soon recalled that Sherlock had strangely opted to make tea today; a hard boiled egg apiece with buttered toast and even better, new music on the violin. John was glad. If something happened in the next moment and they were never to see each other again, at least the last time they were together had been one of peace.

He braced himself as Sherlock opened the door to whoever was outside.

'Oh, hi!' said a bright chipper voice. 'This is a nice flat!'

John almost dropped the coat hanger in his surprise.

'Hello,' Sherlock responded icily, venom dripping from the word of universal friendship and greeting.

'Is John here?' the woman said a little more unsurely now, obviously cowered by the hostility of the man infront of her.

'He is not.'

'Oh...can I wait?'

'I think not. I have a rule about allowing drunks into my flat before five in the afternoon.'

'EXCUSE ME!?'

'You are excused, Harriet Watson,' Sherlock replied almost mildly now, 'but know that if you return here again I will not be so accommodating. Now, remove yourself from my doorway. I am late for a party.'

'I came here to visit with my little brother, you prick!' she shouted, 'you can't keep him from me!'

'Oh i can and I will.'

John heard his sister suck in an understandable gasp of outrage at the stranger's audacity.

'He doesn't want to see you,' Sherlock then informed her in his best don't-be-such-an idiot voice.

While this was true, John had never recalled a moment where he had shared this out loud with his flat mate but he supposed that it was a reasonable conclusion to make.

It was then the inevitable explosion occurred. People shouted at Sherlock all the time but this was different; this was both cruel and vile and it was like Afghanistan all over again.

Held in the grips of a paralysing flashback, John slid down the wall and covered his ears to block out the terrible noise. The attack went out for what seemed like hours as he cowered in the corner, and only abruptly did the man realise that it had turned silent once again. Cautiously, John lifted his head and surveyed his unfamiliar surroundings. To his intense shame he was not in Afghanistan clutching his medical backpack to his chest to protect it from debris. No, he was in a dark closet, in his flat…hiding from his sister.

Her temper was always the real issue; the drinking had come later and just added to the whole mess. Had Sherlock known all along and didn't tell him? It was certainly not something he ever brought up in conversation.

'Sherlock?' he called out in a scratchy voice.

He threw up his hand to block the sudden light as the taller man opened the door so quickly, that it was clear that he had been standing there waiting.

'She's gone,' the detective said after a minute as the two of them just stared at each other, the right words to say eluding them both. The doctor studied his room-mate's face wondering if the tension he saw around his eyes and mouth was in his imagination.

John felt his face burn in mortification, 'Sherlock…I don't know what to say…'

The slender sleuth raised an imperious hand to interrupt this explanation, 'It's fine.'

It wasn't fine. He had hid in a cupboard while his sister hurled abuse at his friend. In what universe was that FINE?!

'Sherlock?'

Gracefully bending on one knee, his room-mate placed a glass of tap water on the floor, before walking away.


	3. Time for rounds

**Anote-** I wanted to keep the chapters short but this one sort of mutated. I will post the rest tomorrow. Almost done.

Chapter 3- **Time for rounds**

The sharp beeps from his wrist watch jerked the small doctor out of the uneasy doze he had fallen into.

With a deep sigh he then looked blearily around his tidy room, illuminated only by the pale moon through a window. He didn't need to check the clock face though. The alarm was always set for 12:45 am.

It was time for his rounds.

The young doctor rose stiffly from the chair he was sitting in, muscles protesting loudly from abuse as he stretched.

He hadn't made it to bed that night.

The case…

The man quickly swallowed the nasty taste in his mouth.

The case had been an unmitigated, heart wrenching disaster. The sleuthing duo was too late and the consequences were the highest that could be paid for failure. But what had made the situation even worse was Sherlock's behaviour. Even Lestrade, friends for many years with the recalcitrant consultant, had been appalled by the man's callousness.

Sherlock's coolness as he surveyed the dead bodies was burned into John's eyeballs for all time. As such, it was one of the few times that the doctor let the detective wander off without him, deciding to stay behind to help the overwhelmed medical examiner.

Further, when John reached home, he was thrilled that his flat mate had already taken himself off to his room because he didn't think he could look him the face. For a brief moment he had listened to his friend practising his scales on the violin, before he too had retreated to his own space upstairs.

He knew that Sherlock cared even if he didn't show it, but at times it was hard to hold on to that truth in the face of so much pain and heartache.

Indeed, if there was one night that begged for the consumption of a sleeping pill from the unmarked vial John had stashed in his trunk, it was tonight. Maybe after his walk through, he would come back and have one. God knew he deserved it after the night he just had. Satisfied with this idea, the small doctor pulled out his bedside drawer and took out his bag of tools.

Soon, he was standing in the middle of their darkened living space, rattling the brown paper bag of sweets invitingly, 'Sherlock?'

Laugh if you must, but a half asleep Sherlock sucking on a square of chocolate was much easier to put to bed than a fully awake one. As the saying went, desperate times called for desperate measures.

The doctor checked all the usual spots but to no avail.

The slim, curly haired detective wasn't sleeping in his armchair, coat sleeve hanging too close to the fire; not on the toilet, slumped against the wall with toothbrush dangling in an open mouth; not under the kitchen table while experiments frothed and bubbled overhead and not passed out on the floor of his bedroom closet, partially dressed in his pyjamas.

Where could he be?

John gnawed on his bottom lip before snagging his jacket from off the hook at the door. He would make one quick trip around the block. Perhaps his restless nature had taken the man to Anton's restaurant for a glass of cold beer.

John stepped out on to the pavement and locked the door behind him. He was just about to walk off when he happened to glance to the left. And there, on a park bench on the opposite side of the road, sat Sherlock!

'Christ!' John muttured as he clutched at his heart.

The detective was wearing his dark blue dressing gown, sitting cross-legged on the metal seat; head bent to his chest, clearly asleep. With the moonlight caught in the strands of his dark hair and illuminating his pale skin, the man looked like an apparition.

Suddenly a movement in the shadow caught John's eye.

What was this?

Was someone out there, just out of sight, watching his friend?!

The small man stared in horror as the shadows writhed with human shapes and with a sharp yelp, the doctor ran full out, arms outstretched to shield his sleeping friend as much as he could.

'SHERLOCK!' he cried out desperately into the night.

With a muffled oomph the two men sprawled awkwardly across the bench, grabbing the sides of the seat to avoid being dumped on the cold concrete.

Wide awake now, the detective looked up at his flatmate in curious confusion.

'John, would you like a hug?'

**TBC**


	4. Burning in the dark

**Anote**: yeesh…at times, Sherlock is not an easy character to write. This is the conclusion after three rewrites!

Chapter 4- **Burning in the dark**

**Continued….**

This was one of those times where John valued his friend's emotional detachment. Quickly he rolled off the other man and looked around.

Nothing.

'I assume that was a hug,' the detective remarked, pulling himself into a sitting position, 'or were you attacking me? Tuesday was an accident; I didn't mean to set you on fire. Or is this about your laundry on Saturday that turned blue?'

The doctor sat down next to him; deciding it must have been a trick of the light or a case of over stretched nerves.

'What are you doing out here?!' he asked sternly, 'It's one o'clock in the morning.'

'Is it? I didn't want to disturb you with my smoking.'

John stared at him incredulously, stunned into voiceless disbelief by the consideration of the man who regularly stored human body parts in their refrigerator.

'Sherlock, it's fine. I'd rather have you fouling up the flat than you sitting out here, alone!' the doctor insisted.

He couldn't understand the odd, penetrating look that the sleuth was aiming in his direction.

'Thank you,' Sherlock murmured unexpectedly, 'you are always so …gracious to me. Too much so I think.'

John regarded him with a small smile of bemusement, wondering what this was all about. From one moment to the next, Sherlock never said or did anything you would expect.

'Did you want something John? Has there been some news?'

Now, the doctor looked at him despairingly. 'Sherlock, you're still thinking about the case, aren't you? The murderer is dead. He did all of humanity a favour by walking in front that bus and there is… no one waiting for us to rescue them.'

'Yes, but why those three teenagers?' Sherlock asked rhetorically, apparently deaf to the sadness in his companion's quivering voice, 'THINK John! They had nothing in common. They ALWAYS have something in common. It makes no sense. What did we miss?'

'The case is over,' the doctor repeated firmly.

'The case is NOT OVER!' Sherlock bellowed so loudly that it made his ears ring. Suddenly the detective hunched over and clapped his hand across his mouth, as if he was about to be violently sick.

With a quiet sigh, John pulled the man to him and laid him across his lap. Sherlock, never the best patient, struggled against this indignity at first, but in the end lay still; intense disappointment robbing him of his normal wiry strength.

The doctor was not the least bit surprised, as he had seen this happen several times in the war. A solider could be shot and not know he was injured until several hours had gone by. And Sherlock had been wounded badly; but not in a place where their acquaintances would think to look!

With the ease of years of long practise in calming patients, the smaller man then briskly rubbed soothing circles against his friend's back. Instinctively he monitored the detective's laboured breathing, and as he took his pulse he wondered how many times this had happened to Sherlock. How many times after a disastrous case, had his friend retreated to his rooms and there in the cold darkness, was burnt alive in the bitter flames of failure.

'I could have saved those kids,' he hissed into the muffled sleeve of John's coat.

'Sherlock please, don't do this to yourself,' the small man begged, 'let it go. This way leads to madness.'

'I could have saved those kids,' the words came again but quieter this time.

The doctor gently patted the soft curls not knowing what to say to bring him comfort, 'You are only human.'

Sherlock snorted loudly, 'And once again as I said before, you are much too gracious with me.'

It took a moment for John's tired mind to work out what his friend had just said, and his arms tightened involuntarily around Sherlock's meager frame in shock.

'John? What's wrong?' he asked quickly, as it was impossible to miss the other man's shudder of distress in this close proximity.

'You actually believe that people don't think you are human?!' the ex-army captain replied in a strangled voice.

'I don't give a tinker's curse what other people think, as you very well know,' Sherlock replied carelessly.

'It's NOT true,' John insisted vehemently, 'People don't think that. You're wrong.'

Sherlock was touched by the unnecessary words of solidarity, and with a quiet sigh of exasperation at John's kindness, he twisted his head to press a swift, cold kiss on the doctor's open palm.

'John?'

'I'm here. I'm right here.'

'Did you bring my sweets?'


	5. Eavesdropping

Chapter 5-** Eavesdropping**

The harried Scotland Yard inspector let out a sigh of relief as the elevator door swished opened with a musical ding, revealing one Dr. Watson within.

'He's this way,' Lestrade beckoned and he led the way into a small darkened classroom. John followed him in obediently, relishing the bite of the cool air condition as it hit his skin.

Together, the two men stared through the huge examination window into the brightly lit autopsy/morgue.

The average person would turn away from the gruesome sight of a covered body in such a close space, but these men were accustomed to such scenes of violence and they were able to ignore the dead and focus on the living person that lay there.

'How long has he been like this?' John whispered tightly as he noted Sherlock's vacant expression as he stared at the blank ceiling above.

'It's sound proof,' the detective reminded him, not bothering to lower his voice. 'He can't hear us. I am not sure how long he has been here. The cleaners opened up this morning and found him.'

'Has he eaten some breakfast?'

Lestrade flushed slightly under the fierce look in the other man's eyes, 'Um…no, I don't think so. I just went in to make sure he was breathing and then I called you.'

The inspector looked anxiously at John's pale features which denoted that he hadn't had a pleasant night either.

Eventually the doctor noticed Greg's apprehensive scrutiny of his face. 'I am sorry about causing a row at the crime scene last night.'

Lestrade waved off the apology, 'I am just surprised that it hasn't happened sooner. John you are doing an EXCELLENT job at managing Sherlock. For the first time, we can channel his incredible abilities and he has become an invaluable resource to the department as opposed to….'

'…being a cantankerous old goat,' John helpfully supplied.

'Don't give up now,' Lestrade pleaded.

John sighed, wondering anew why this was his life.

A few months ago, he HAD been looking for a new life even if he wasn't fully aware of it at the time. Alone and directionless he had drifted from one cheap living situation to another until he met Sherlock. And like the massive ocean currents that circulated the globe, Sherlock was an unstoppable force of nature and John had been pulled under the relentless tidal forces of his extraordinary intellect, insight and charisma.

'I let that reporter get to me Greg,' John said firmly, wishing to make the circumstances perfectly clear, 'I let him get to me and I took it out on Sherlock. If he had come home last night, I would have apologised. I just didn't think he would take it on …so badly. I didn't mean it! He should know me better by now.'

The inspector crossed his arms across his chest. 'I think you are being absurdly generous considering all Sherlock puts you through on a daily basis.'

'He really isn't that bad,' John insisted. 'I was having an off day and just to reassure you, I have no intention of going anywhere.'

The two men automatically looked up as a door opened in the autopsy room beyond.

'Oh hello!' Molly chirped happily, when she noticed her unexpected visitor laying on the cold metal table, 'you picked a good day to visit; we have a full house in the freezers.'

The attendant was a plain but sweet girl, however, whenever her eyes fell on her favourite consulting detective, she radiated in a way that made other men's heads turn. As such, John and Greg both stared at her animated features with undisguised admiration.

'Hulo,' Sherlock mumbled tiredly, blind as a bat to anything but an unsolved mystery, 'Is it morning? I should go.'

'No no,' she hastened to add, 'you can stay and keep me company. Please, I would like that.'

With a watery smile, Sherlock took a nearby seat and Molly flitted around him preparing the first body on the table for examination.

'Did you have a good night?' she asked brightly as she draped an apron around her guest to protect him from blood splatter, 'you look a bit peaky.'

Suddenly, John became aware that he was eavesdropping and he raised his hand to knock on the glass, but the inspector held him back.

'Wait,' he suggested, 'He has a soft spot for her. Let's see if she can help.'

**TBC**


	6. Remaining Silent

**Anote**: I have been swamped by work this week but next week things should be light so that means more stories! Yay! I will see if I can finish this bit off on Sunday.

In this chapter, I would advise that you not eat while reading as it takes place in the middle of an autopsy.

Chapter 6- Remaining silent

…**.continued**

'I've had better,' Sherlock remarked dryly, looking a bit irritated when she snapped a disposable cap over his wavy locks to prevent contamination of evidence, 'Why are you so happy?'

John shook his head in exasperation. If he had been in there, he would have gently stepped on Sherlock's foot or given him a warning jab in the ribs.

Molly though, was now skilled in how to manoeuvre her beloved but difficult visitor, 'No particular reason other than the fact that there's work to be done. Do you want to talk about your night?'

Sherlock shook his head and immediately the young technician activated her bone saw, knowing better than to ask again.

As she weighed out the first set of organs, he cleared his throat, 'You get along well with Dr. Watson, yes?'

'Oh yes, he's such a pleasant bloke,' she replied, 'did you quarrel?'

'No…yes…I am not absolutely certain,' Sherlock informed her in a feeble voice, with the pleading confused look of a man who was out of his depth.

Molly felt her heart melt at this unexpected display of vulnerability.

'Tell me the last words he said,' she suggested kindly, thinking this might be easier than asking him to explain.

'Christ, sometimes I wish I had never met you,' he relayed in a flat, hollow voice, the words and facial expression crystallised in his perfect memory for eternity.

Molly gulped, realising this was worse than she had bargained for.

'And the sentence before that?'

'You are such an ass!'

'And before that?' she pressed tentatively.

'You never deny it. Why do you never back me up? You just stand there like a bleeding idiot and let everyone think we are couple. Why are you staring at me like that? It is a perfectly reasonable question?! Just forget it! You are such an ass! Christ sometimes, I wish I had never met you,' Sherlock fired off his friend's entire conversation in short, staccato bursts like a machine gun and like a gun, the words had obviously found their mark.

Good God.

John soundlessly crumpled into a chair and turned his head; anything to block out the sight of his best friend's face contorted in confused pain like that of a small child, who had been slapped repeatedly for reasons unknown.

In the meantime Molly had calmly restarted her autopsy. This was the correct approach to take as an overly emotional response would have driven Sherlock back into a shell and mentally John applauded her cunning.

'Can you tell me the answer?' she asked gently, easing her way carefully around Sherlock's dark expression. 'Why is it that you never say anything?'

'Because our sexuality is no one's sodding business but our own, that's why!' he snapped, uncharacteristically resorting to obscene language as his temper began to fray at the edges.

The young woman made a note of the stomach contents in the body under examination.

'Well I know that, and you know that,' she said soothingly, 'maybe John just needs a gentle reminder.'

'If he would stop reacting every time someone commented on our relationship,' Sherlock snorted angrily as he scrubbed vigorously at his bloodshot eyes with the heel of his hand, 'they would stop commenting!'

'Do you want to open the cranial cavity?'

'Oh yes please,' Sherlock replied excitedly, bouncing to his feet and diving happily towards the box of gloves.

Carefully she supervised the work, but it was not necessary as the man meticulously followed the line she had drawn.

'Excellent,' she complimented him, 'now…what's the other reason you remain silent every time someone asks if you are together; the reason that you don't want anyone else to know.'

Sherlock stopped breathing and his eyes cut sharply to the left where she was standing.

Molly suddenly turned as white as her lab coat, 'oh god…you like him. Do you ...do you want to ask him out? Because that would be good…that would be very …he's a good man…very kind …and so good looking…and he understand you'.

Hurriedly Sherlock peeled off his glove and rested a warm hand on her shoulder to cut her off her quivering rambling. 'I do care for him but it's not like that between us.'

In the darkness, Lestrade was slumped against the wall staggered by the whole exchange. 'Blimey.'

'I told you he wasn't so bad,' John smiled smugly, pleased that his friend had decided to clearly explain their relationship to Molly as she, more than anyone else in the world, would be deeply distressed to have such a rival for his affections. 'You only see him when he is wound up like a spring in the middle of a case.'

'I am not sure if I care for the way you read my secrets Molly Hooper,' Sherlock said with a piercing look when she had finally calmed down.

The technician blushed furiously under his intense scrutiny before he walked away. At the biohazard bin in the corner, he began divesting himself of his apron and hair cap.

'But you are correct,' he confirmed as he washed his hands in a nearby sink, 'I don't say anything because I don't mind that people think we are together. It plays to my vanity I suppose. Truly Molly, when someone assumes we are a couple, I am speechless. Human beings rarely surprise me but I am quite astounded that so many people in London think that I am capable of holding the heart of a man of Watson's quality. Me, the freak!'

The final truth wiped the smile off John's face.

'Good bye Molly!' Sherlock sang out, as he walked out without so much as a backward glance for his faithful confidant.

**TBC…**


	7. Do no harm

**Anote:** There are lots of stories of Sherlock apologising to John after a fight and I wanted to try it the other way around for a bit of a different view. I hope you are still enjoying the story because I am having a great time writing it.

Chapter 7**- Do no harm**

John was struck by a strong sense of déjà-vous, when Sherlock abruptly craned his head around to look at him. It was more the startled expression in the man's grey eyes that seemed familiar as in this instance, they were not standing alongside a swimming pool nor was John wearing several pounds of explosives wrapped around his torso.

'Good morning,' John said politely in a firm but friendly tone, 'I'm glad you're home.'

Sherlock managed to nod in reply but opted not to say anything out loud.

An hour had passed since Sherlock had spoken to Molly and revealed so much of what he kept hidden in his mind. In that time, John had decided to take the long way back to Baker Street, as much to avoid running into the detective as to gather his thoughts. He didn't think he would encounter the taller man standing in the middle of the doorway, staring blankly into the flat they shared.

'I've brought your favourite for breakfast to apologise for last night,' the doctor added holding up the bakery bag of warm, freshly baked berry scones, 'May I come in?'

Gracefully Sherlock pivoted to one side and with a grand sweeping gesture, he held the door open.

John was much amused at this exaggerated display of manners, up until he walked through the opening, and Sherlock slammed the door shut and threw the bolt closed.

Filled with concern, John stared at Sherlock's back as the man gently rested his forehead on the wooden door with a barely, audible groan.

'Sherlock?' he called out worriedly, 'are you sick? Turn around and let me see your face.'

'I'm fine…I think' came the muffled reply, 'I am just more affected by not finding you at the flat than I thought I would be. This is a most peculiar and unpleasant sensation.'

The doctor noted his use of the word flat not home. It was true enough, because only when they were together, was it home.

The ex-army captain had learnt the harsh distinction between the two words last night, as he sat by the unlit fireplace, staring at the detective's empty armchair while the clock on the mantel mercilessly ticked away the hours.

'Sherlock?!' John cried in false dismay, 'You're standing in the doorway! How could you possibly know if I was home? I could have been under the covers having a lie in.'

John was hoping that an opportunity to show off his deductive prowess would put back the glimmer in Sherlock's eye, and make him turn around, but it was not to be.

'I know what the flat feels like when you are not here, John' Sherlock replied evenly, with not one shred of emotion in his voice.

It was this lack of emotion; neither sad nor angry, nor resentful or judging, that did the doctor in more effectively, than if the detective had dealt him a blow with a hammer.

Many times John had left Sherlock 'to get some air' and it never appeared to bother the detective before. Consequently, the doctor didn't feel the need to call or text during that time. The distance was a coping mechanism they utilised to maintain the health of their friendship and whenever John returned the next day, the most Sherlock would do was nod or if he was feeling particularly agreeable, put some water in the teakettle to boil. He HAD noted that Sherlock never left the flat before he came back home though; beguiling away the minutes of waiting with his beloved violin or searching the internet for crimes to solve from his armchair.

In all those times it would appear Sherlock had never doubted John would return; not until today.

'I don't want to talk to your back,' the small man eventually remarked in a subdued voice, the knowledge that he had caused so much hurt making it hard for him to speak. 'Won't you turn around? Please…do it for me, Sherlock.'

'This way is easier,' the detective replied. 'You should come over and try this.'

'No thank you. I'll just wait here for you to look at me,' John insisted quietly, prepared to stand until his friend composed himself.

It really was the least he could do.

'You're just going to stand there and wait?'

'Yes, I think I will.'

With a sudden, swift movement the slender young man twisted around to face him; defiantly crossing his arms around his chest, as all animals tended to do to protect their soft underbelly from attack.

Years ago, John had taken an oath to do no harm, and the words of his promise echoed in his mind now, as he painfully observed the look of wariness in Sherlock's eyes.

'Can you make me some tea?' the doctor requested.

The taller man looked blank at first, but then his brain came back on line and he hurried to the kitchen, apparently relieved to have some useful employment.

John was just as skilled, if not even more so, in managing an emotional Sherlock as Molly was. In the meantime, he cleared away his writing desk. The two men usually took smaller meals there by the window, as opposed to when they ate their dinner on trays infront of the television at night.

In stark contrast to the depressing gloom inside the flat, the sunlight was shining cheerfully through the narrow glass and John felt his sprits lift as the sun warmed his skin. Vigorously, he shook out a small white tablecloth and threw it over the now cleared surface, decorating the table with a single glass measuring cylinder containing the beautiful, shimmering crystals that Sherlock had grown in his tiny science laboratory. As always, John smiled when he saw the rainbow pattern that was suddenly projected across the table and due to the lateness of the hour, across a good deal of the floor.

Then, much to Sherlock's surprise, John joined him in the kitchen and plugged in the percolator to make coffee.

Standing side by side, they didn't talk as they prepared the beverages but this small domestic act, where they demonstrated intimate knowledge of each others drink preferences, spread like a soothing balm over areas that were raw and red from the sharp words of the night before. It seemed to hint at the strong foundations of their friendship that just like a house, were hidden out of sight but were very, very real. Indeed, Sherlock couldn't help but smile gently down at John's blonde head on his left, as the good doctor absently hummed softly to himself while he carefully measured out the two sugars needed for the detective's coffee.

Soon the drinks were ready and as they walked towards the breakfast, the two men deftly exchanged cups without spilling a single drop, as only an ex-army doctor and a skilled chemist could do.

'Butter?'

The detective turned back for the butter and as was their usual practise, Sherlock waited till John was seated, before he swung his long legs under the small space, lightly capturing one of the doctor's legs between his own as the best way to get all their limbs to fit.

'What's wrong?' John asked quickly; as he felt the reconciliatory atmosphere between them suddenly evaporate.

**TBC**


	8. Suddenly inappropriate

…continued

Chapter 8- **Suddenly inappropriate**

Sherlock stared at John anxiously over the rim of his coffee mug, searching for any signs of revulsion in his eyes.

However, the doctor only looked alarmed and concerned at his sudden immobility.

Given the current state of affairs, with John emphatically implying he could no longer tolerate being regarded as a couple in public, Sherlock had a sudden gut wrenching idea that this whole fiasco, was now nicely positioned to wreck untold havoc in his life.

For instance, was John at this very minute about to yell at him to turn his long legs to one side because the way they were sitting all tangled together, was suddenly inappropriate? Starting today, would John select a seat at the far end of the living room to write his blogs instead of sitting behind his armchair? When tomorrow morning came, would John turn away his face as the detective struggled with his shirt cuffs when he couldn't get the tiny buttons to fasten? Tonight, when it was time for bed, would John go there in pain because he no longer felt comfortable asking Sherlock to massage out the stiffness in his shoulder?

The detective felt himself grow cold all over, as he contemplated these depressing changes.

The two young men had come far since those first weeks of settling into Baker Street.

It had taken some effort in the beginning but eventually they got the hang of it, because it was one thing to know in your head that you had found the most important friendship of your life, and quite another to live with that person.

And contrary to public opinion, it wasn't always Sherlock that was the source of difficulties!

Because of the doctor's experiences in the war where he was forced into close quarters with his unit for months on end, John had an alarmingly high tolerance (Sherlock's words not John's) for certain social scenarios that the detective would never have thought possible between anyone other than a close family member or a lover.

As such, John had "encouraged" him into a number of "activities" that Sherlock had tried desperately to scramble out off.

One of the most memorable had occurred when one busy morning, the ever practical John, had dragged him by the back of his blue dressing gown into the bathroom, stripped him off his clothes and tossed him into the shower. After which, the good doctor then calmly proceeded to brush his teeth and shave on the other side of the dividing curtain. From that day on, the two men companionably shared the small toilet facilities whenever they were up to their eyeballs in a case.

Ha!

The tabloid reporter who was the cause of this whole mess would have had a field day with that one!

The real truth (that supposedly everyone was so anxious to know), was that every time John demonstrated how supremely comfortable he was in Sherlock's presence; the ice that had long surrounded his person had begun to thaw, one cold drip at a time.

With his gentle unassuming ways, the doctor had slowly taught his lonely spirit how to be close to another person and in the quiet of his heart, Sherlock had relished the intimacy that grew between them; soaking up every last drop like a starving sponge. He had been transformed by John's friendship, not into a social butterfly capable of mixing with everyone in a room, but into a person that would never again be able to return to a life with only police officers for sporadic social interaction, and a manipulative older brother coupled with an overly emotional mother thrown in the mix.

Without a doubt, it was one of those regrettable things in life to consider that the relationship he and John had, was what Sherlock should have had with Mycroft. However, this was beyond Sherlock's control because the detective didn't trust his brother long enough to even share a drink at the pub.

But was all of that over now?

Had Sherlock, because of his enormous pride and vanity, lost his unconditional access to this side of John's nature?

Sherlock felt heart sick and sore all over, as the bitter loss sank heavily across his slim shoulders.

Suddenly, the detective inhaled a single, deep gulp of air and closed his eyes, focusing inwards as he forced the rooms in his mind to grow dim and close shut; wrestling for control of his run away thoughts and emotions.

John would never do that to him. He would not take away his friendship, and in so doing tear his insides apart, just because of some vulgar gossip.

John CARED about him. He had killed a man so that he could live! Friendships like that could weather any storm. Besides which, a person was who they were over the course of time, not in one heated second of anger and exhaustion.

Sherlock eventually opened his eyes again, when all he could feel was the coffee mug warm in his hand and all he could hear was the doctor's quiet breathing opposite him.

Now that he was a bit calmer, the world's only consulting detective felt acutely ashamed that he ever entertained the thought that John would hurt him like that. His thoughts had been unworthy of the unfailing loyalty, courage and character that John displayed in all situations and to all people.

Delete.

Good God…when was the last time he slept? His head felt like it was stuffed with cotton.

He put his coffee mug down to one side and grabbed some of the scones that John had so kindly buttered for him while he was 'away'.

'Alright there?' the doctor repeated his concern, now that Sherlock had returned from whatever path he was meandering along in his mind. Judging from his changing facial expression, it hadn't been a pleasant journey.

'Yes, I thank you. I was having an extraordinarily stupid thought, which I have already deleted from my brain.'

John fidgeted with his scone. 'Can I request something else be deleted?'

Sherlock eyes sparkled as he looked up swiftly; intrigued by the proposition.

'Certainly.'

**TBC**

**Anote: **There will be some nice fluff in the last part where they hug and make up, just for you _**Bally**_. Thanks for your consistent and positive reviews. It feels like I have a one man cheering squad at my elbow, encouraging me along.

Also _**Chastain**_, please input 'youtube how to train your Sherlock' into a search engine and do enjoy the wonderful friendship video that another fan has made. There are others out there who do believe in love and I hope the video puts a smile on your face. Don't stop believing.


	9. Forgiveness

….continued

Chapter 9-** Forgiveness**

'Can you delete the part of the conversation about me being sorry we had met? I was upset and I lashed out. I am so INCREDIBLY sorry...'

'John…' Sherlock threw out one hand to interrupt him.

'I know that I hurt you even if you won't admit it out loud.'

'John!'

'Why did you stay away last night? I was worried! No text! No call!'

'JOHN!'

The doctor fell silent, tension rippling through his body as Sherlock regarded him with a stony, unforgiving expression. All of a sudden, John started to feel dizzy and upset. Maybe he shouldn't have had any of the breakfast.

'Consider it deleted,' Sherlock interjected quickly into the silence, shifting around restlessly in his chair, 'Please do not distress yourself in this manner any further.'

John startled his companion when he reached over and gripped the other man's hand; shaking it enthusiastically in relief.

'Thank you, thank you,' the doctor murmured fervently, 'you are TRULY, the most wonderful person I have ever met!'

Sherlock drew back hastily in horror, breaking the man's hold, 'For God's sake John!'

But the good doctor could not be quenched and ginned broadly at Sherlock's discomfort so engagingly, that the detective could not help but smile ruefully in return.

Sherlock knew to himself that he was happy even if he didn't feel that way. Perhaps he had used up his quota of emotions for the week or maybe he needed to get some sleep. In the whole scheme of things it didn't matter; John was here with him and appeared to be content now with his tea, and his scones. It seemed unbelievable to think that only a few short moments ago, Sherlock felt so alone and miserable and with only a few quick words, that feeling was taken away.

As loathe as he was to spoil the peaceful moment, the detective's mind turned to some matters that were still unresolved between them, 'and what about that bit about me being an ass?'

'Oh well…that's part true, isn't it?' John teased him with a wink. However Sherlock didn't smile back this time.

'John, if you tell me what to say when people ask if we are couple, I'll say it. I personally don't believe a person's sexuality needs to be remarked on but if it's that important to you, I'll do it. I want you...to feel comfortable…with me.'

'Christ, Sherlock!' John retorted sternly in disbelief at the man's hesitation, 'I DO feel comfortable with you!'

And just to demonstrate the point, John reached out and took both his slim wrist in his strong fingers.

'You don't have to say anything,' the smaller man insisted. 'It doesn't upset me as much as it just takes me by surprise. It is so bloody strange that everyone makes that remark that you are and I are together! Is it because I'm short and you're so tall?'

John slapped his forehead with a tragically comical groan, 'Oh no! Does that mean I am the woman?'

The detective felt relief flood him to the core even as he was highly amused by John's remark about their heights, 'I agree, I do it find it odd that we get that comment everywhere we go.'

The ex-army doctor pinned him with a stern look, recalling that the man's reasons for this were a bit different from his own. If he understood it correctly, Sherlock didn't think he was good enough for a person like John to fall in love with, or some sort of rubbish along those lines.

'John, I want you to look at me,' Sherlock began in the voice he used when he was being completely serious, 'Look me in the eye and tell me for certain, if I have to say anything the next time someone asks you if I am a snorer?'

John turned his head and laughed quietly, remembering that memorable case in Baskerville, 'You heard that?'

Sherlock smiled across at him affectionately at this point, but suddenly let rip such a huge yawn that John felt he was in some real danger of being swallowed alive.

'Good God, Sherlock what was that?!'

'John, I think my head is about to fall off.

'Actually now that you mention it,' the other man remarked, as he dropped his scone and turned his head to stifle an expansive yawn of his own.

'If you clear the table, I think I will just curl up right here,' the detective announced solemnly.

But John shook his head, already on his feet, ready to assist, 'Let me help you to your room. Come on…up we go!'

The men wrapped supportive arms around each other but even though the will was there, the co-ordination wasn't!

'John, your shoulder!' Sherlock yelped in concern, as the two men stumbled into a wall with an almighty crash. However, the way John was laughing insanely assured him that it was alright. Soon, the doctor's infectious laugh started him up and it wasn't too long before the two men were giggling together in an idiotic manner that was guaranteed to set Mycroft's teeth on edge, if he was within hearing.

'The other left Sherlock,' John called out as they negotiated the furniture.

'It's a good thing our reporter "friend" can't see this,' Sherlock remarked as they made it safely to the bedroom.

Gratefully the detective dropped on his bed, and kissed and hugged his pillow.

'Sherlock?'

Obediently, the detective rolled over to look at the doctor, who despite his own exhaustion was obligingly closing the curtains to block out the sunlight. 'I want you to do me a favour.'

'Anything,' Sherlock promised, as he kicked off his shoes.

'The next time someone asks us about our love life, I am giving you full permission, right here, right now, to tell them to PISS OFF!'

Sherlock laughed out loud at this bit of uncharacteristic and thoroughly rude language from his small friend. He couldn't remember the last time he felt so free of worry and care.

'With pleasure!'

However, as John came closer to take his watch and jacket from him, Sherlock began to scowl at the way the doctor was weaving on his feet.

'John? You don't look so good, maybe you should sit down for a minute.'

And before Sherlock managed to get all the words out, the doctor had collapsed on top of him in an untidy heap.

'My bad,' John apologised with a groan as he crawled into the empty space next to his friend. 'Don't mind me…I'll just rest here for a minute.'

In less time than that, the doctor's gentle snores could be heard.

For a moment, Sherlock enjoyed the soft hypnotising sounds of the small man's breathing. It really was quite wonderful and after the events of last night, Sherlock ranked the sound right up there with any of Beethoven's symphonies.

With the last of his remaining strength, Sherlock then reached out one hand to remove John's shoes, before he too lost his mental footing and slipped into the deep abyss of sleep.

The two friends would remain like this through the entire day and into the early night; motionless and peaceful, deaf to their ringing mobiles and rumbling delivery trucks, so deep and clean was this sleep, that not even their habitual nightmares could breach its borders.

**Anote**: Whew…that's the end of this story that seemed to have a mind of its own. _**Bally **_I hoped you enjoyed the fluff. In the meantime, I think I will try for something short for Sunday. Before I forget again, I have gotten lots of followers in the last week for this collection of stories. Thanks ever so much for reading! Isn't this a great friendship!?


	10. A dirty picture

**Anote**: Does anyone have a story request? Please drop me a line.

Chapter 10- **A dirty picture**

For October, it was an unusually fine looking Sunday.

John had chosen a table in the sunlight trying to soak it all in, but his distracted frame of mind didn't allow him to appreciate it, as much as he would have done on another occasion.

For the sixth time in the last ten minutes, the small man checked his watch, before turning his head to search the elegant bistro/restaurant. Then, he looked down absently at the menu, even though he knew in his head that the selections would not have changed since last he studied it.

Every part of his being was telling him to get up now and walk away.

With a sigh, he pulled out his smart phone from his jacket pocket and fidgeted with the keys, thinking of texting Sherlock, just to pass some time as he waited. The doctor searched his head for something to type but unfortunately, nothing really intelligent came to mind.

So what?!

The detective regularly texted him the most nonsensical questions and requests, at all hours of the day and night!

John activated his message system.

'_Do you want me to bring dinner?'_

The ex-army captain stared at the screen, waiting for a response, but none came.

Brilliant.

Sherlock was surgically attached to his phone and now, for some reason, he wasn't answering.

The doctor let his head drop into his hands in his frustration. He needed to calm down. He couldn't go into this date agitated and defensive.

The phone beeped musically and he scrambled to read the screen.

'_Yes, thank you.'_

Instantly, the doctor felt a wave of calm roll over him.

When they had parted ways an hour ago, Sherlock had serenely informed him that he was a fool. The hard part of it all, was as much as he didn't want to admit it; the longer John sat there, the more he thought that the man had been right. Sometimes it was embarrassing, but the detective had a refreshing way of speaking his mind that cut through a lot of the crap people deluded themselves with on a daily basis.

John glanced at the restaurant menu again.

'_Turkey or chicken?'_

'_John, is there a problem?_'

Ha! Was there a problem?

'_I think this was a mistake,_' John admitted. _'I'm falling apart here.'_

He had hit the send key without thinking of the outcome.

Christ. Why had he done that?

John closed his eyes, anticipating the proverbial, 'I told you so.'

'_Sit there_,' Sherlock typed, '_I am coming_.'

John gaped at his phone in surprise. It would take Sherlock at least fifteen minutes to get here, even if he happened on a cab immediately infront of the flat. But all the same, he was touched by the man's consideration and atypical concern for his welfare.

The doctor was just about to call and tell the man not to come, when a familiar tall, dark shadow loped past his table.

He looked up just in time to see Sherlock casually settle himself into a chair a few tables down from him, as if the fact that he had been following John was a normal every day occurrence.

Mouth hanging open, John stared incredulously at his friend, as he laid his newspaper to one side and with his head down, scribbled in his notebook. How long had Sherlock been in the street, silently observing him?! The doctor was astounded that the man had been in the shadows, watching over him all this time.

When Sherlock finally held the small book up for his inspection, John had to lean around a dinner patron that was blocking his view.

'RELAX,' Sherlock had printed in bold letters.

That was easy for him to say. He would gladly switch places with the detective if he could! For the life of him now, John couldn't fathom why he had accepted this invitation to tea. It WAS too soon!

Sherlock, perhaps noticing that John was not in the mood to relax, turned the page and wrote something else.

Glad for this unexpected and entertaining distraction, John leaned forward, eagerly waiting for the new message.

He snorted with laughter as Sherlock flashed him a sketch of a large smiley face, with an unusually wide toothy grin.

Again, the book disappeared and the detective worked on a fresh message.

John squinted at the new drawing.

It was the stick figure of a man. No…not quite, because either this man had three legs or he was in possession of a very long….'

The doctor gave his friend a stern look and with a sharp wave of his hand, ordered Sherlock to put away his cartoon.

The detective looked thoroughly dejected at this snub and he bent over his drawing with an air of determination, trying to improve on it.

With the new additions, John was forced to cover his mouth with one hand to stifle his laughter. Sherlock wasn't drawing him a dirty picture as he first thought. No, it was a cartoon drawing of the doctor, but with his walking stick.

Emboldened by his success, Sherlock flipped to a new page and began to draw energetically once again.

The ex-army captain smiled fondly at the man's bushy head. It was sweet for Sherlock to try and make him forget his worries. Most of the male colleagues John knew would have walked away; not wanting to get too involved in a situation where there was no real clean or immediate solution. It was therefore strange to recall, the many times Sherlock had implicitly warned him that he wasn't a very nice person and to keep his distance. However, what John had come to appreciate over time, was that it was Sherlock's non-existent grasp of social relations that was the problem, more than any true meanness of spirit.

In fact, the detective in his own convoluted manner did want John to admire and depend on him and had exerted himself a bit to achieve this goal. As such, with the aid of day time television, Sherlock had secretly taught himself to recognise when the doctor was upset, lonely or scared. Inevitably, when such occasions arose, Sherlock would then courageously risk an emotional exchange by standing or sitting somewhere nearby; as with an instinct older than time, he knew that the close proximity of another human being would aid in lightening John's burden.

This time when Sherlock displayed his cartoon, it was easy to decipher as the thick, curly hair was a dead giveaway. What made John double over with laughter in this instance, was the way Sherlock had drawn his head almost five times bigger than his stick body.

Again the notebook disappeared, but John didn't get a chance to see the man's latest creation as another familiar figure filled his vision.

'Harry!' John cried out, as he stood up and embraced his sister. The doctor normally wouldn't have been so exuberant, but the woman was able to benefit from the good mood that Sherlock had created.

Harriet wasn't complaining though as she hugged her little brother tightly in return; his warm, strong body, a familiar and soothing counterpoint in her troubled life. She was however quite embarrassed by the way he was clearly enjoying her clean, alcohol free scent.

'I do smell pretty great, don't I?' she tried to remark with some humour, but was shamed enough by her past drinking exploits to duck her head.

'You smell very nice,' John informed her forgivingly, kissing her gently on the forehead.

As brother and sister seated themselves, John glanced behind her briefly. Sherlock was now completely hidden behind the voluminous folds of the _The Daily Telegraph_ to escape detection.

The detective hadn't been at all sympathetic of this attempt at reconciliation, but it strengthened John's heart to know that even when they disagreed, Sherlock stood firmly in his corner.


	11. A piece of fiction

**Anote: **I am never too sure what people mean by 'crack' fiction, but I think this definitely qualifies.

This is written on the edge of **fiction **and** nonfiction** while I was wrestling with this week's chapter, which Sherlock of course is making difficult for me. It's just for fun, so don't get offended my lovely readers. I will delete it out, if anyone has strong objections.

Normal chapter will be posted this weekend using one of these ideas, so look out.

Chapter 11**- A piece of fiction**

'What do you have there Sherlock?' the doctor asked as the detective laughed in disbelief.

The two men were sitting in their flat, checking their emails before heading out for the morning.

'New story suggestions for our fan fiction are up.'

Interest peaked, the small man climbed to his feet and hurried over.

'John, I think we have to keep a careful eye on this,' Sherlock said in annoyance, 'I am this close to firing the writer.'

'I don't think we can fire her.'

'What? Why not?' the detective, looked up in some surprise.

'Because she's writing these stories for free,' John patiently explained. 'In any case, I think they are great.'

Sherlock snorted as he glared at the other man, 'Of course you would! She worships the ground you walk on!'

John gave him a stern look, 'Don't be so melodramatic. She likes you too. It's not her fault that you are so difficult to write! Let's see what we have here. This is a good one. Look Sherlock! Quite appropriate!'

_**SHansen**__: __Sherlock messes up yet another date for John, but this time tries to make up for it._

'If you would stop introducing me to these…..WOMEN!' Sherlock reasoned with a sneer as he pointed at the computer screen, 'a humiliating scenario like that would never occur.'

'Sherlock, I HAVE to introduce you because you are my best friend and we LIVE TOGETHER!' John yelled in frustration as he waved his hands around; this topic being canvassed to death on many occasions.

'I do not care to meet any of them,' Sherlock replied dismissively.

'Oh yeah? I think I got that hint when you propped that large no-girls-allowed sign on the coffee table. Look, it's too early for this, let's not argue!'

The men read another suggestion.

_**Bally: **__How about they both get sick but they each try to take care of each other?_

'Yeah, like that's going to happen,' John remarked with a giggle.

'How do you mean?' Sherlock asked, pinning him with a curious look.

John smiled in bemusement, not sure if Sherlock was asking a serious question or not. 'Taking care of someone sick requires a lot of patience. You wouldn't last a day!'

'Fine,' the detective murmured unexpectedly, as he looked down and away. 'Well I am sure you rather one of your "GIRLFRIENDS" look after you. I probably wouldn't be any good, anyway.'

John caught sight of his hurt expression out of the corner of his eye and sighed. Sherlock was such a manipulative bastard that he really should give lessons.

'I would much rather have you take care of me if I was sick, than anyone else,' John insisted in a monotone voice.

Even though Sherlock sniffed and pointed his aristocratic nose in the air; he smiled, elated that John had said the words, despite the fact that they both knew he was lying through his teeth.

Quickly Sherlock scanned through the rest of the reviews; boredom growing as no further comments were made about his sheer wonderfulness.

John put out his hand to stop him.

'Hmmm…well this one here is interesting. Not a story suggestion but a comment.'

_**Chastain**_: _John is the best. Maybe we'll get to see more of Captain John Watson instead of sidekick and Mother Hen John Watson?_

'A more serious role,' John murmured in a dreamy voice as he stared out the window, '…that would be lovely; quite lovely.'

Sherlock gave him a look of disbelief, 'You don't need a more serious role. The role you have is serious enough or is being kidnapped, poisoned and assaulted, suddenly too tame for you?'

John wasn't looking at him, but Sherlock was dead serious in his remark. Over the months, the small doctor had one too many close calls for his liking!

_**Hummingbird: **__Well, all I can say is...Ohh, my sweet, precious boys! *Gobbles them up*_

'Definitely, NOT my area! Sherlock shouted, as he sprang out of his chair as if he had been shot in the buttocks, 'I'll just leave you to deal with this.'

'No thanks. I'm coming with you!' John yelled, crashing into a table as he made a grab for his coat.

The two men then turned and thundered down the steps, as if all the hounds of Baskerville were nipping at their heels.


	12. Simply amazing

I am glad my last 'chapter' was so well received. Its great fun writing for a bunch of people who appreciate creative writing!

On to our chapter for the week!

Chapter 12- **Simply amazing**

Not many people knew about Anderson and Sally's affair, other than Inspector Lestrade, John and of course Sherlock, who had spitefully outed them during the case of the Pink Lady. It was therefore no surprise to them when Anderson let out a howl of agony, as the bullet tore through Sally's leg, and spun her around like a leaf in a sharp, cold wind.

Lestrade had to jump on his forensic scientist's back to keep him down, but Sherlock neatly settled the matter by grabbing Anderson by his coat, and knocking the man out with a well timed blow to the jaw.

Then, the two of them turned around just in time to see John dart out into the line of fire, running in a low crouch until he reached Sally's side.

Sherlock suddenly felt like howling too, but the sound stuck in his throat.

'Oh Christ!' Lestrade cursed out loud, as he clamped one strong arm around Sherlock's torso to prevent him from vaulting over the barricade.

At this point however, no one was going anywhere, as they all simultaneously ducked to avoid the perfect rain of bullets that came towards them. With the left side of his face pressed to the cold concrete, Sherlock continued to stare in silent, wide-eyed horror as John bravely pulled Sally to a convenient bit of cover, behind a tiny shipping crate.

Please God. Don't….

It was happening so very fast but yet everything seemed to be in slow motion. Sherlock couldn't believe what his senses were inputting into his brain. John was out there…alone…with not even a bullet proof vest to give him some protection!

'Sir!' one of the young constables called out.

'I see it,' Lestrade snapped, 'they are moving to surround Watson and Donavan! Get ready to cover them!'

Suddenly, a sharp whistle from their opponents cut through the air and the resulting silence vibrated like a living thing. Everyone took the opportunity to climb to their feet and scramble for better cover; everyone except John who, for reasons that don't need explaining, was pinned into place.

'Oye!' one of the robbers called out, 'You there! The little chap in black! You be a doctor?!'

'Yes I am,' John sang out loudly, never looking up from the woman he was aiding, 'Please do not shoot me.'

'We have a man hurting here,' the voice came again, 'you help him and we don't blow your brains all over that nice jacket of yours.'

'That would be lovely,' the ex-army captain replied in that soothing, conversational way of his that endeared him to all, 'can he walk? You need to bring him here.'

'You must be nutters if you think we are going to do that!' squawked another voice, 'your pals will cut us to ribbons.'

'They will do no such thing. You have my word,' John informed him confidently.

'Get over here, you blighter! You have one minute!' the first voice yelled out with a snort of disbelief.

Sherlock stopped breathing.

No!

John might become a hostage! Sherlock would shoot the doctor himself before allowing that to happen again!

The detective dropped to his knees, and waved his hands to get John's attention which wasn't hard, as the small man was desperately searching through the thick crowd of officers, looking for his flatmate.

Finally, their eyes connected, and Sherlock could clearly see the fear he was desperately trying to hold off.

'EXCELLENT!' Sherlock hissed exuberantly, while the rest of the officers glared at him doubtfully.

Why were they looking at him like that?

Fear was good!

Fear meant that John would stay in one place and not attempt anything stupid!

'These are my friends,' John calmly explained again to the thieves, 'they will not hurt you. Bring your man out.'

And as if to demonstrate his complete control of the violent situation, John raised his hand. The unmistakable sound of multiple weapons being powered down, echoed eerily through the early dawn.

Sherlock stared in shock at the police men and women around him. Even Lestrade had lowered his gun at John's silent command! What the hell?! When had this happened? When did John, his faithful little shadow, begin to direct members of the London police force?

'No deal! Leave the woman!'

'I cannot leave her, she will go into shock and die,' John insisted, 'make a stretcher with your arms linked if your man cannot walk, but for the love of God don't tear any wounds open. The ambulance will be here in minutes. It would be best if you find a clean cloth and put some pressure on it. Look, I am doing it…just copy what I am doing here!'

'THIS ISN'T A FUCKING NEGOTIATION!' the voice screamed in real anger now.

'Then shoot me. Go ahead, you snivelling cowardly bastard! Shoot me in the back! Nothing a spineless criminal like you can say, will EVER convince me to move!'

There was a collective gasp from the officers that were looking on.

'Sherlock!' Lestrade whispered, throwing him a do-something-look. 'Is Watson deliberately provoking an unknown number of armed assailants?'

The consulting detective had to swallow hard before he could speak, 'Not at all, but you do NOT ask John to walk away from some one who is hurt. It doesn't happen.'

Lestrade threw him another look of pleading.

'I can bully my room mate but I have never been able to get Captain John Watson, army doctor, to back down from ANYTHING and that is who's out there now. You are going to have to take him out with a tranquiliser dart, if you want him to stand down,' Sherlock explained quietly, his heart stampeding in his chest as he gripped the police car door hard. He and the good doctor were going to sit down, and have a serious talk about this reckless sort of behaviour later! How DARE John traumatise him in this manner!

As if sensing Sherlock's distress, John gave them an energetic wave with his free hand to assure him that all was well.

As it stood now, the small man had two fingers plugged into a bullet hole, trying to prevent a friend from bleeding to the death; he was calling out taunts over his shoulder at unseen gunmen AND he was trying to reassure the rest of Sally's police colleagues to be calm, all at the same time!

John was simply amazing.

'Gentlemen, can I have five meters please?' he called out softly to his side of the line. As one, all the constables and detectives stepped back the requested distance.

As could be expected, tensions mounted exponentially as two of the robbers came into view, trundling their wounded comrade between them.

Sherlock knew he was not heroic like how John was, as he had a healthy respect for being shot and for other types of physical pain, but he couldn't ignore the chance that had presented itself.

John had asked him about it later when they were having a late breakfast at around noon, and all he could do was shrug. It had made perfect sense to him at that time.

'That's my assistant!' John lied as the slim detective suddenly broke cover, 'Ignore him!'

But the sight of Sherlock rapidly crawling forward on his hands and knees, was too much for the scared thieves and they dropped their man; resuming their shoot out with the police as they scurried away.

'I didn't know you had an interest in field medicine,' John remarked companionably to his room mate, as bullets whizzed around them like angry flies.

It was one of those moments in time which seemed to stretch on forever as they grinned at each other like buffoons; the fear melting away as it always did when the two friends were side by side.

However as he looked down, Sherlock felt his stomach twist at Sally's alarming milky complexion.

'Don't look at her, look at me,' John ordered him sharply. 'You are no good to me if you faint or throw up. She is going to be fine. I need you to work on that fellow behind you. I will direct and you will obey. Can you do that?!

Sherlock thought it best to nod instead of opening his mouth. The smell of hot blood, gun powder and that special bouquet from the Thames, were starting to hit him hard.

'Excellent…now roll up your sleeves. We have work to do.'


	13. Missing

Chapter 13- **Missing**

'How can you be so sure of where John is?' Angelo rumbled as he shambled alongside Sherlock like a great black bear.

The detective smiled faintly through his worry. On this occasion, it was nothing particularly clever like some interesting puddle of mud or torn piece of stationery. It was just that he and John knew each other long enough now, for the detective to predict his reactions and vice versa.

'Because contrary to what John insists, he is not a spontaneous person,' Sherlock explained as he turned up his coat collar to cut the wind. He had forgotten his scarf as he ran out the door, which he did as soon as he had realised that John had climbed out of his bedroom window. Now THAT bit was quite spontaneous!

'John's upset,' he proceeded to explain to his loyal companion, 'very upset. So upset that the four walls of his room, for once do not provide any comfort. He needs a place where the sight of him staring shell-shocked into space doesn't garner any comments. A pub is the most likely idea he would come up with. Which pub? Some place close to the flat because the case might break at any moment. Not your place…'

And here Sherlock gave his big friend's shoulder a hearty slap.

'...because he knows you are loyal to me AND you would never let him drink himself into a stupor, which he badly wants to do now that he is suddenly single again.'

The two men stood in front the closest bar along the street that John took almost every day, as he walked to and fro from the London tube to the flat.

'I am sorry to hear that,' Angelo grunted, not at all impressed by the grimy exterior of the drinking establishment, 'I think he really liked the lady.'

'He did,' Sherlock murmured, as he pushed on the door handle.

The pair stepped inside and blinked rapidly, trying to adjust their senses to the dim light, made even worse by the unwashed windows.

Immediately, Angelo stood protectively in front of Sherlock as the squirrely looking bartender hurried towards them.

'Do you know who I am?!' the slim sleuth barked out, as he gently pushed Angelo to one side.

'Yes sir,' the man replied differentially, bowing and scraping in a strange repulsive manner, 'I seen your picture in the paper. Your man's here. I've kept an eye on him sir.'

'Any trouble?' the detective asked as he followed the barkeep into the bowels of the pub, suddenly noticing the keen glance of some young ruffians at a wobbly card table.

The bartender shook his head. 'They wanted him to join in a game, but he said a few words and they cleared off right quick. He's a scrappy little fellow!'

Sherlock laughed softy at the description; relief calming him as he caught sight of his missing friend slumped on a table in the corner, asleep.

'That he is,' the detective agreed, as he turned to shake the bartender's hand.

The hundred pound note that Sherlock had pressed to his palm, quickly vanished into his shabby pockets.

'I think the only thing on his mind sir, was getting drunk as fast as humanly possible.'

Angelo then clamped a heavy hand on the man's shoulder and drew him away to give the two friends some privacy.

'John?' he called softly.

Quietly, Sherlock slowly edged up to the doctor's side; eyes automatically roaming over his body, checking for injuries. Even though it was dark, the detective could still see the tearstains that had long dried on his cheek.

Sherlock reached out a hand and gently rested it on his friend's shoulder.

When you lived with someone long enough, their irritating quirks and qualities eventually had an opportunity to rear their ugly heads. John's crusade to find a steady girlfriend ranked high on Sherlock's list of exasperating behaviour, right below the doctor "accidentally" binning his fridge-based experiments on a weekly basis.

On several occasions now, Sherlock couldn't but help sneer at John's rather unscientific approach to the whole matter. Although, given the capricious subject material, Sherlock conceded that this random method of female selection was as good as any. However, it was clearly not efficient. Sherlock would just complete his discrete security check on one girl, when another would come bounding through the door.

Of course there was some nebulous part of Sherlock's brain that wanted his friend to be happy. If a girl was going to do that, then the detective was all for it. Everyone needed a hobby. What Sherlock didn't understand was why HE had to be so involved in the process. Why did he have to be polite and help serve tea? He WASN'T polite and he DIDN'T serve tea! It was maddening!

Well alright…to be fair, it wasn't so bad ALL the time.

Being served hot food right infront the television after successfully completing a case, Sherlock, in all his staunch bachelorhood, would agree was quite splendid. You weren't even required to talk on these occasions, because the sight of you happily stuffing your face with the lady's cooking was met with tremendous approval, and pats on the head. However, that couldn't make up for all the rest. The incessant tidying and nagging to put up your things for instance, the forest of brassieres and stockings hanging in the bathroom to dry, and the phone calls in the middle of a case, wanting to know where EXACTLY you were.

He didn't know how John tolerated it, and he didn't know why the good doctor was in such a rush to give up the life they had.

Sherlock was clueless about many things, but he did know that any woman worth her salt would want the dining room table back. What woman out there would put up with his geological and mineral collection, cluttering up the corners? What woman would allow her husband to be rushing off at all hours of the day and night?

Husband.

Sherlock felt his heart grow a little cold even though, given the recent break up, this wasn't a possibility for a while.

The detective had not yet grown tired of this life and had hoped to enjoy several years of John's companionship before this occurred. Together, they lived in a snug comfortable flat in an exciting part of London, stimulating mysteries were suddenly to be found around every corner and then, there was their relationship itself. Except for the lingering darkness yet to be faced in the form of Moriaty, Sherlock thought his life was quite pleasant.

'I will miss you John Watson,' he murmured.

**TBC**


	14. Waiting for you

**Anote:** I dont have any real timeline for my stories. They tend to hop around as inspiration takes me. But all my stories are set before Reichenbach Fall, which can you believe i have never been able to finish. I would watch a little bit and start bawling like a nine year old girl.

Anyhow, on to our happy conclusion.

Chapter 14- **Waiting for you**

…**.continued**

'Shall I hail a taxi?' Angelo called out, as Sherlock inexplicably continued to stare down at John's face.

The detective raised his head, startled for a moment as to where and when he was.

'No. A little fresh air will be for the best, I think,' he replied as he shrugged out of his heavy coat and tossed it to the man.

As Sherlock deliberately increased the pressure on the doctor's arm, he absently listened as Angelo explained that John wasn't a good sleeper, and care was needed.

The doctor was getting much better in Sherlock's opinion, only falling out of bed with a shout maybe once or twice a month now. However, the detective never woke John up if it wasn't absolutely necessary. Such an exercise was unnecessarily "exciting" for everyone involved.

Sherlock's muscles were tensed in readiness; poised to prevent his friend from injuring himself or anyone else when he noticed something.

John was still dressed in his clothes from today. Did this mean that he had his gun under his coat?!

There was no time to check as the sleeping man surged to his feet and spun around, startling the others but the detective was ready.

'JOHN!' he shouted, as he clamped surprisingly strong arms around his best mate to stop him from struggling, 'John, it's Sherlock! You are in London. You are safe.'

The doctor's eyes feverishly darted around him, searching for the danger.

'You are safe,' Sherlock kept repeating as he monitored the way the tension seeped out John's body.

'Hi,' the doctor greeted him with a scratchy one hundred year old voice, 'has Lestrade called in?'

Good. John was back in the here and now, and Sherlock loosened his grip accordingly.

'No. No news from Interpol as yet.'

John wobbled a bit on his feet, but was safely held up in his friend's arms.

Sherlock gave him a sociable shake, 'what's a nice fellow like you doing in a place like this?'

This unexpected attempt at humour made John smile weakly, 'Waiting for you, of course.'

Sherlock sniffed in pretend disbelief, 'I bet you say that to any blighter that comes along.'

A real giggle came from John at this point. What on earth were they talking about? His alcohol soaked brain wasn't too sure but he appreciated the sound of Sherlock's soothing voice.

'Nope,' John offered in a slurred voice. 'I can safely say that you are the only person, man or woman, I say that to.'

The startled look on Sherlock's face told him he caught him off guard with that one. The detective squinted at him hard, clearly wondering how drunk he was.

'Just how many drinks HAVE you had?'

'Thanks for coming to get me Sherl.'

The doctor leaned to the side and gave Angelo a weak wave with his fingertips. He didn't normally consume any drugs or copious amounts of alcohol under any circumstance because of his profession, which indicated just how truly devastated he was by the whole business.

'John I am sorry that it didn't work out. Again. You are really quite bad at this. Is there anything you can do? I understand grovelling is a very successful manoeuvre in these instances.'

John smiled up at Sherlock's patient expression, much comforted by this display of support.

'You are a good friend but home is all I need right now. That and a basin because I know I am going to be sick all night. I don't understand why people do this to themselves on a regular basis. Christ, I feel awful!'

Slowly John raised his arms and draped it around his neck, as the detective carefully picked him up. With a grateful sigh that this action didn't prematurely start an attack of vomiting, the smaller man closed his eyes and rested his dizzy head on Sherlock's breast. Angelo then stepped forward and tucked the detective's coat over John so that people wouldn't stare.

'Perhaps a cab would be a good idea,' Sherlock admitted as he shifted the man in his hold into a more comfortable position, 'He's a bit heavier than he looks.'

'I can take him,' Angelo offered, extending his beefy arms.

Sherlock neatly sidestepped around the man, the same time the doctor convulsively tightened his grip across his shoulders.

He wasn't quite ready to give John up to anyone as yet, thank you very much!

'It was a comment not a criticism,' the detective remarked sharply as he stepped strongly towards the door.


	15. Are you alone?

**Anote:** Since I have put Sherlock and John in very close quarters in this chapter, I thought it might be a good time to address a few queries/criticisms about the direction of the story. No, it is not going to turn into a romance and no, I do not mean to deliberately mislead my readers. However, my story _Do you even care?_ is, in the end a love story because as the boys have demonstrated, there is no greater love than a man who would lay down his life for his friend.

Hugs and kisses all around for everyone who has reviewed and is still enjoying this fascinating relationship!

Chapter 15- **Are you alone?**

A scratching noise on the bedroom door broke John's concentration. Automatically, the doctor glanced at his watch on the bedside table.

Was it that late?! He was sure that he had just climbed into bed with several cases that Molly asked him to review.

'Yes?'

'Are you alone?' a familiar voice whispered.

'Of course I am alone!' John scowled, knowing full well that the detective was aware of his single status. Did Sherlock think he was the type to bring home random women from off the street?

Suddenly the door swung open and hit the wall with a bang. John sighed and raised an exasperated eyebrow at the other man's dishevelled appearance. The detective looked like he had been in a fight with his blanket, as his wavy hair stuck up comically in all directions around his sullen face.

With his pillow tucked under his arm, the pyjama clad-man then marched into the room and curled up in the unoccupied space in the bed, as if this was the most natural thing in the world.

John groaned quietly as he propped up his head in one hand.

Not this again.

The detective's unexpected appearance in the middle of the night had been a recent and ever increasing event of late.

With a shake of his head, John leaned over to push him to the floor but the peaceful look on Sherlock's face stayed his hand. It was indeed a miracle that the other man could rest with all the horrors that he had seen in his years of helping the police. John knew that his friend had a remarkable ability to compartmentalise but in sleep, as in death, all men were made equal.

It was too late in any case, as Sherlock's breathing had already evened out into a familiar steady rhythm. John collected a spare blanket from his chest of drawers and draped it over his sleeping friend.

What would he have said to the man? Wake up and go to your room, I don't care if you had a nightmare?

How would that work considering the many times Sherlock had risen from sleep, walked straight passed him, used the bathroom and went back to bed without uttering a word?

'If you wanted to tell me why you were sitting in my room in the middle of the night,' Sherlock would dismissively say the next morning when questioned, 'I am sure you would!'

It was like Sherlock KNEW that in those first couple of weeks of moving in, that John couldn't be alone with his thoughts, especially at night. Those long hours, sitting on the floor in the corner, had helped centre and maintain John's sanity as no drug or blog could ever do. Every quiet breath Sherlock took as he slept, had chiselled away at the despair and loneliness John felt since returning from the war, until one day…he couldn't find those feelings anymore.

So sometimes the ex-army captain sat in his room mate's room, sometimes Sherlock was in his. WHY was this such a problem?!

John repeatedly hit himself on the head as if trying to encourage the stubborn answer to fall out. He hated himself for being unable to demonstrate the same amount of patience and compassion, that Sherlock had offered when their situations were in reverse.

Perhaps it was because it wasn't exactly proper for two grown men to be so close. Perhaps the constant queries about their sexuality had spoilt the innocence of their friendship in a way that could not be repaired.

'Oh John, don't deny the truth that's staring you in the face!' said an irritated voice in his mind that suspiciously sounded like his quick-to-anger room mate.

The doctor groaned again in real pain as he let his fear roll over him. It was a strange thing to be afraid off, but he was afraid.

John could protect Sherlock from all sorts of dangers, treat him when he was injured or when his tummy hurt, and stand at his side when the whole world stood opposite, but who would protect Sherlock from HIM.

The man opened his eyes and stared blindly at the wall infront him; seeing the story of their friendship unravel before him like a black and white movie reel.

From the very first night that they had raced across the city to meet Lestrade, the doctor had been secretly so proud that a man as remarkable and brilliant as Sherlock had favoured his company so quickly and so exclusively. But that pride had blinded him to the daunting reality that Sherlock was more fragile and unbalanced than his prickly, confident demeanour indicated.

For instance to the outside observer, it would appear that Sherlock habitually walked off and left John behind but in truth, the detective kept careful tabs on the doctor's whereabouts at all times. Additionally, John was beginning to suspect that the real problem the man had with him dating was that the detective didn't know how to share John (or didn't want to) with another person. Three year old Sherlock was most probably the type to beat the rest of the children in the playground with his plastic shovel and chase them out of the sandbox.

Sherlock's friendship had literally and figuratively saved his life. It was almost unbearable to think that in the end, it was he that would cut Sherlock the worse of all.

Of course John wanted to prevent this scenario from coming to pass, but didn't know how. Keep the detective at arm's distance? Shake him till his teeth rattled in his head? John would never forgive Sherlock if he let him break his heart.

So deep were his morbid thoughts that he failed to notice the subtle change in the sounds of the room. Suddenly, some sixth sense made John shift his eyes to the left, and his heart fell like a stone to see Sherlock awake and looking at him over his shoulder.

**TBC**


	16. A sense of consistency

Chapter 16- **A sense of consistency**

'Should I leave?' Sherlock asked quietly.

John smiled feebly in reply. How long had the other man been studying his face?

'I thought you were asleep.'

'Can't sleep in all this noise,' the detective informed him enigmatically, with an uncertain smile in return. 'You mind is deep in thought tonight, my friend. Perhaps about me?'

The doctor gave an anxious titter as he looked away; rolling his eyes in disgust the moment he realised that such a move was like a glaring neon sign to someone like Sherlock.

'I was thinking about the future,' John admitted in a steady voice; not wanting the detective's lightening quick mind to start imagining all sorts of bleak scenarios.

Sherlock rolled over to face him, pulling up his blanket over his head until only his strangely slanted eyes peeked out. He was relieved that the doctor hadn't ordered him out. Perhaps he should limit these nocturnal visits to REALLY bad nightmares. Such as the ones that involved a broken John or Molly, lying spread eagle alongside a dark churning swimming pool.

'More like you were worrying about the future,' Sherlock suggested quietly as he burrowed deeper into the comfortable mattress, 'which everyone knows is a very foolish thing to do.'

John took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

Quite right. It was a foolish thing to spend precious energy on.

Living and celebrating every moment was a lesson that John had learnt from his tour of duty, and he was glad that Sherlock had reminded him of its applicability in his life today. They could walk out the flat tomorrow morning and be killed by a run away ice cream truck! (Although improbable, you never knew with a friend like Holmes).

John vowed then and there to stop worrying about this.

He was human, it was only natural to slip up and have a bad day, but he knew to himself that he would never deliberately, set out to harm Sherlock. The only thing he could do with each God given day, was to therefore move pass those bad moments and continue to be a good friend to the detective. For as long as Sherlock wanted him, he would continue to care for him, instruct him by example and be his companion.

John hoped that this sense of consistency, where a person was certain of their constant value, free from mainpulative motives, would help Sherlock's weary spirit to grow from strength to strength. He had already started to see some small signs of a change over the months of their friendship, and the doctor felt that this was because his room mate finally believed he wasn't so alone in the world anymore. It was indeed an honour to know that he was helping this great man on such a deeply personal level, and John's heart swelled with joy at the thought.

He looked over and smiled genuinely this time in Sherlock's direction.

'As foolish as locking the door of the wardrobe behind you,' he laughed quietly as he cleared the bed of the medical folders.

?

'Yes, quite,' Sherlock agreed unsurely, wondering if this was a new way of changing the subject that he wasn't familiar with. He was quite content though to follow John's lead, as he sensed the man's brooding internal conversation had ceased.

As the doctor happily fluffed up the extra pillow and jammed it into the space between them so they wouldn't roll into each other during the night, he wondered at the man's bemused expression.

'Wait...' John regarded him in surprise, 'you don't know the **Lion, the witch and the wardrobe***?'

Sherlock's eyes widened as if his friend had suddenly grown a second head. 'The what?!'

'Goodness. You must be the only person in England who doesn't know this story.'

'Is it a horror? Does anyone die?!' Sherlock asked ghoulishly, his eyes glittering with excitement, 'the lion must eat someone if they are all packed into a cupboard!'

John had gone to his trunk and pulled out the children's story out of his army bag. Sherlock examined the battered little book with interest when the doctor returned; resembling a giant, inquisitive caterpillar as he leaned over the pillow barrier.

'I do believe that this story has travelled far,' he remarked simply, as opposed to his usual clever discourse of deduction.

'And you would be correct. There where times when I wished a magical portal would open up for me to step through,' John admitted nostalgically, recalling those hot brutal days of patrolling. 'Take it. Accept this as a gift from me. '

Sherlock shrank back from the unexpected gesture, 'I cannot! It's clearly important to you!'

But the doctor would not be denied and found Sherlock's hand under the folds of the blanket.

'Take it,' he insisted, closing the man's thin fingers around the spine of the book, 'for those nights when you have a nightmare and I am not…. there. It's a story about a battle but it's also about snow, and handkerchiefs and afternoon tea with sardines. No matter how bad things got, it reminded me that home was waiting for me, just over the hill.'

Sure now that John was actually quite serious, Sherlock excitedly popped up and sat cross legged on his side of the bed. His eyes shone at this novelty. A present! How lovely!

'Thank you for the book!'

As Sherlock carefully opened his gift, John looked on with a rueful expression as a steady trickle of desert sand poured out of the pages.

'….and for the sand?'

Hastily, the doctor cupped his hands together to catch as much of the grains that he could; laughing all the while at the unexpected craziness that always seemed to ensue when they were together.

**Anote**:

**_The Lion, the witch and the wardrobe_** is part of the Chronicles of Narnia, which is a series of children's stories written in 1950, set in England during the World war. There is a line that keeps repeating itself 'it is a very foolish thing to shut one-self into any wardrobe,' which, as you have read, inspired some bits of today's chapter.


	17. Green sprinkles

**Anote:** Warning for suggested drug use.

Inspired by medical stories written by _**Xin0Lan**_

Chapter 17-**Green Sprinkles**

John was usually a calm-think-it-through type person. So normally at this point, he would have gone downstairs and asked Mrs. Hudson for the spare key to Sherlock's bedroom door, but there was nothing a bit normal about that cryptic phone call from Mycroft.

As such, the doctor put his foot to the door and broke open the lock with a resounding and unapologetic crack!

'SHERLOCK!' he cried out loudly in panic, hurrying towards his flat mate. The detective had apparently tried to make it to the bed but had failed.

'Are you bleeding?' John asked anxiously as the man thankfully opened his eyes and began to move around almost immediately. The doctor's medical training then kicked into high gear; cataloguing all the symptoms as quickly as the detective would have done to one of his potential suspects.

Shaking fingers.

Cold skin.

Rapid pulse.

Unsteady walk.

But thankfully no blood and no signs of any obvious injury, as Sherlock wobbled to his own two feet with the minimum amount of assistance.

John helped the man get into bed, quickly throwing some warm blankets around the fully dressed man. (Covering the man with blankets seemed to be an almost full time occupation these days).

The detective had stopped shaking as much now however, John didn't like the way Sherlock's eyes were wild and restless; darting all over the room and the ceiling.

'Did you take something tonight, Sherlock? A pill, an injection?' he questioned him worriedly, resisting the urge to push up the man's shirt sleeves to check for needle marks. He knew that in the past the detective used, but he hadn't seen any evidence of such in his behaviour since he had moved in, apart from the rare cigarette when he was stressed.

Finally, John reached over and firmly clamped the man's head between his two hands.

For the first time that night, their eyes connected and John could clearly see the mental anguish that his flat mate was trying to hide from him.

'Sherl, have you taken any drugs tonight? You can tell me,' John begged softly, 'Yes or no, I will always be your doctor and your friend. Please tell me. Please.'

The detective shook his head.

'No, but it sounds like a brilliant idea at this point,' he said in something sounding like his normal voice.

John patted the man's arm in relief before dashing off for his medical bag.

Soon, the doctor was going through the soothing ritual of checking his friend's vital signs. Sherlock apparently thought it was soothing also, as all the previous troubling symptoms subsided within the space of a few short minutes.

After he was completely satisfied, John removed his stethoscope and folded it back into his bag.

Naturally, the detective tensed uneasily as the man placed a hand on either side of his pillow, and leaned over him to study his face.

'Hello?' Sherlock greeted him with a fake smile. Perhaps he should pretend to be sick and put off the inevitable scolding that he could feel was coming. He wanted John to stay with him but would pass on actual conversation.

'You lied to me Sherlock!' John hissed, 'You said you were going to the Library!'

Luck was not with the detective tonight. Actually, she seemed to have deserted him completely that evening.

Suddenly, John climbed to his feet and the man on the bed made a wild grab for his friend, but wasn't quick enough.

'Don't…' Sherlock pleaded, the right words eluding him from years of rust and neglect.

The detective didn't know if it was his friend that turned back at that moment or a doctor who would not abandon a patient, but he didn't care.

The small man wouldn't look at him as he bustled around the room, closing curtains, turning down lights and then as he helped him take off some of his clothes from today but Sherlock was immensely grateful not to be alone with his dark thoughts.

After the doctor had shook out Sherlock's jacket and put it on a hanger to air, he drew a chair to the man's bedside and sat down heavily.

'I don't want your brother to EVER call me again to give me information about your whereabouts,' John said in a stony voice as he crossed his arms across his chest, 'that was a shitty thing to do to me, Sherlock.'

The detective suddenly found the ceiling above to be exceedingly interesting.

It was therefore a bit of a shock as he felt John take his hand. Sherlock squeezed back as hard as he could.

'It's fine, as long as you are okay,' John said in a more reasonable, understanding voice. 'I'll give you a little something to sleep tonight.'

Sherlock curled up on his side and watched the man open his medical bag and take out several small bottles of clear liquid. He liked to watch John work. There was a grace and precision to his movements that were very calming to his analytical mind.

He barely winced as the needle pierced his skin.

'This will work fairly quickly,' John informed him as he swabbed the area with a little antiseptic covered cotton ball, 'I'll stay with you until you fall asleep.'

'Thank you,' the man replied just as quietly, happy that John wasn't mad at him anymore. His stretched nerves wouldn't have been able to handle anymore tonight.

'I take it that the dinner with your mother and brother was a fiasco of epic proportions,' John probed gently with a small sympathetic smile, trying to get a sense of the evening's unexpected events. To him, Sherlock always appeared completely indifferent to anything regarding his brother. Who knew that the detective was such a basket case where his mum was involved? But then again, most rational people could become completely unhinged when it came to their mothers.

Sherlock tried to smile back, but gave up on the effort entirely.

John didn't know why Sherlock had tried to hide it from him though. Every other person out there had a dysfunctional family, himself included. It wasn't something to be ashamed of.

He needed to talk some sense into the man. Consequently, John moved over to sit on the edge of the bed again, facing his friend.

'Sherlock, every time I have met with my sister, have you ever let me go alone?' John asked rhetorically as he placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. 'No you haven't, not once.'

The doctor frowned down at him sternly. 'I WILL go with you next time. That is how it is supposed to work!'

Sherlock looked a little confused at this matter of fact declaration, as the medicine began to rapidly fog his mind.

'I'll wait outside in the street,' John added quickly, colouring slightly as he misread the man's silence. No doubt, Mrs. Holmes might not be too thrilled to meet the shabby, unemployed war veteran that her beautiful baby boy was sharing with.

But here Sherlock smiled; a genuine smile as John's intent was made suddenly clear to him. 'No, you must stay at my side. That would be good. Thank you.'

They both grinned stupidly at each; the strength of their unlikely friendship still taking them by surprise even after all this time.

'When is the next visit?' John asked.

'Christmas,' Sherlock winced, but the thought didn't fill him with dread as much as he thought it would; not when he knew John had pledged himself to be there.

However, the detective's heart plummeted as he took in the other's doubtful expression.

'Hmmm,' John murmured thoughtfully, 'well, we'll find a way to fit it in. I have plans for us this Christmas.'

Sherlock's face took on a silly aspect as he tried to figure out the man's words. This was the first time he was hearing of any plans.

'Plans?'

'Yes, plans,' John informed him firmly, as he tucked the blanket gently under his neck. 'First, we are going to give the flat a quick sweep and polish. Then we will hang some lights in the windows and make everywhere bright and cosy. After that, we will dress up in warm jumpers every evening, drink eggnog, bake cookies for the hospital and sing rude Christmas carols as loud as we can; maybe even invite a few people over.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the last idea.

'Just one or two close associates,' John reassured him quickly.

'Cookies?' Sherlock murmured hopefully, fighting to stay awake now.

John leaned over him with a conspiratorial air.

'I was going to save this as a surprise but a few days ago, I went down to the party store and you would not guess what they had on sale from the Halloween. Skull shaped cookie cutters! Isn't that wonderful!? You could use some white sprinkles to decorate your cookies for the brains!'

'Green,' Sherlock insisted in a slurred voice.

'Green? You want green sprinkles?'

But at this point, Sherlock's eyes rolled up into the back of his head. Peacefully he drifted off into a strange dream of an impossibly wonderful first Christmas holiday, at 221B Baker Street.


	18. A glimpse of home

**Anote:** Woke up this morning and felt for something funny and sweet.

Chapter 18- **A glimpse of home**

With a last swipe of his hairbrush, John surveyed his appearance in the mirror. He had decided to go with a suit and tie, in response to the semi formal request on the invitation card. What the heck did that mean anyhow?

He sighed deeply as he stared at his reflection. Was this such a good idea? Did he really want to meet up with a whole flock of his high school mates and swap stories about how "wonderful" their lives were now?

The doctor made one last check of his room, before he picked up his train ticket. His jaw slowly fell open, as with some confusion he suddenly realised that there were two slips in his hand instead of the one.

No.

No.

No…no. This was not happening.

'Sherlock?!' he called out sharply, as he hurried down his stairs.

A muffled thud came from his flat-mate's room.

'Almost ready!' he yelled in return, 'what in thunder does semi formal mean?!'

With a groan anticipating a scene, the doctor entered the bedroom where Sherlock was busy vibrating between two tie selections.

John decided to go with a calm approach first. Thank the saints that he realised what was going on before the detective bounded out, all happy and excited to be going on an outing.

'Sherl, what are you doing?'

'I can't decide,' the tall man murmured fretfully, casting an inquisitive glance at him as if trying to get inspiration from his outfit.

The doctor came up to the man, and took both ties from his hands and laid them gently on the bed.

'Sherlock, this is a class reunion. It isn't an event where you can….' and here he trailed off, as the other man looked down so trustingly in his face, that he couldn't say the words. Most everyone thought that Sherlock was all salt and vinegar, but he wasn't like that all the time. He could be thoughtful, encouraging and kind, but just not when you waved a criminal or unsolved murder in front of him.

The detective's face lengthened when his mind pieced together what John's hesitation and mannerism meant.

'But the card said Watson and guest!' he protested vigorously.

Oh god.

'That usually means spouse,' John explained quietly.

Sherlock uncharacteristically shifted his weight from one foot to the next, the way he did when he realised that he had completely misread a situation.

'Not best mates?'

John shook his head.

What WAS this all about? Sherlock didn't go to occasions like this! It hadn't even crossed John's mind that he would want to go when he had read out the email to Sherlock. There would be people that he didn't know and he would have to make small talk to a whole room full of strangers for the entire night! John truly believed that Sherlock would prefer to be slowly tortured, than to endure such a dinner.

'Is everything all right?' the doctor tried to ask brightly as he reached out to grip the man's forearm, 'Talk to me. You know that I am complete rubbish at trying to read your brilliant mind.'

His stomach twisted as Sherlock shook off his hand and walked away.

'I don't understand why you want to go in the first place!' he sneered, 'what good is there looking to the past?!'

The detective unexpectedly pulled out his sock drawer and dumped the entire contents on the bed. He then started reorganising them in a new pattern.

'Sherl, I'm coming back, if that's what you are worried about,' John replied strongly, fighting to get a handle on the moment.

Their eyes connected and eventually the doctor had been forced to look away because of the sheer intensity of the man's penetrating stare. Had he been reassuring Sherlock or trying to convince himself?

John reached out and picked up the two ties as a way to distract himself.

Why did he bother to ever hide anything from the man? The detective may not have a shred of understanding for others around him, but he could follow the movement of his thoughts as easily as if it was written on the wall. For the last couple of weeks, John had been feeling exceedingly depressed for no reason at all. When the invitation had come on the email, it was like a sign. John leapt at this chance for a glimpse of home, and those who knew him when he was whole in mind, body and heart.

Would the old rugby pitch still be there? It might be nice to throw a ball around. Sherlock was a natural athlete. He was sure the man would pick it up in a few tries. Besides, he couldnt leave his friend behind to worry for a whole night.

'The train ride is two hours long,' the detective said persuasively, instinctively sensing an opening, 'and you know that I am excellent company!'

Only Sherlock would think something like that!

John snorted with reluctant amusement as he picked out a tie and tossed it to the other man, 'you have your moments. How do I look?'

Hopefully, the detective watched as John pulled out a small shoulder bag from the closet and proceeded to pack his travelling blanket and iPad.

Sure of his welcome now, the man was all smiles as he abandoned the socks. 'Must you go with this brown jacket?'

'What?' John said in surprise, automatically looking down at himself as if expecting to see something horribly wrong.

'It's sooooo…. brown!' Sherlock insisted vaguely, 'and it doesn't fit! Wear the black leather.'

The detective quickly turned him around and stripped him of the ill fitting garment.

'Sherl…are you sure?' John asked in concern, almost losing his balance with the level of the man's enthusiasm. 'Isn't that too casual?'

He jumped in shock, as Sherlock suddenly took a can of hair gel from off his dresser and squirted it in his hair.

'Work that in!' he ordered, pushing the smaller man towards the living room to collect the black coat, 'yes, I am sure. You look like a ninety year old hobbit when you wear that brown monstrosity.'

He didn't give the doctor another chance to look at his appearance, as he herded him relentlessly towards the doorway.


	19. A midlife crisis

**Anote**: Thanks to my super awesome beta _**Bally **_who patiently suffered through my moody rambling this weekend. This is a continuation of yesterday's story that I simply could not get out of my head. _**Xin**_ you have me hooked on these medical scenarios now.

Chapter 19- **A midlife crisis**

…**.continued**

John had to admit that it was pleasant to have company, as they sped away from the busy London station on a Saturday night. There was nothing quite like having a flesh and blood person that cared about you, sitting at your side when you were feeling blue. Soon they had the carriage all to themselves as passengers disembarked along the way.

All in all, it was reassuring to have Sherlock in sight when he was in one of his "excited" moods. It would have been a miserable night to be apart, as they would both have been worrying constantly about the well being of the other.

The detective had settled down now and fortunately appeared to sense that John was in a pensive mood. As such, Sherlock had been satisfied to wrap up like a mummy in his blanket, and curl up around his iPad device which the doctor had so wisely packed for him to stave off possible boredom. For the entire journey, he had been engrossed in a new crossword app that he had recently discovered.

They reached their destination in good time and rented a car to drive the rest of the way. As they wound their way in the dark, John pointed out some of the landmarks from his childhood to a remarkably attentive audience.

Such a good beginning was followed most favourably by the amicable decision that Sherlock would wait for him in the almost deserted hotel bar, while John ducked into the reunion for about an hour. Then, they would spend the next hour walking around to see the sights before catching the last train back to London. Additionally, the doctor had arranged with the bartender to provide Sherlock with nothing stronger than a pitcher of beer and a promise to call if there was any difficulty. As he walked off to the dinner party, John was treated to the unusual but wonderful sight of Sherlock demolishing a large plate of chips of his own free will.

The night couldn't get any better as far as he was concerned.

The full hour had not yet expired, when the doctor slipped out of the ornate doors of the hotel ballroom.

Furtively, he looked left and right to see if he was alone. As he struggled to walk, holding on to every available surface to pull himself forward, the small man began to slowly panic.

This couldn't be happening again!

His leg!

John couldn't think. He couldn't breathe.

Sherlock would fix him. He would know what to do!

A vision of his walking cane swam into few and he pushed it ruthlessly away. He would rather _**die**_ than…

He pulled up short at the bizarre sight of Sherlock just across the street, enthusiastically following a card game with four hulking labourers. The men easily dwarfed the curly haired detective with their bulk!

Thankful to have found the man so easily, John hobbled as fast as he could, but his energy gave out half way there, and he was forced to throw his arms around a nearby lamp post to keep on his feet.

In all this time, the detective hadn't looked up once. On any other occasion, John would have found the sight of his flat mate, listening in bug-eyed horror to a seedy story involving a woman of dubious virtue to be quite a laugh, but not tonight.

Suddenly the slender man caught sight of his friend and he leaped up with a guilty expression; overturning the crate he was sitting on.

The devastated look on John's face had him running forward before he even realised it, and he was only just in time to catch the doctor before he collapsed to the pavement.

'OYE!' Sherlock's new acquaintances shouted in concern and they quickly abandoned their game to protectively surround them. It was clear that the two friends were terrified but of what, the four of them could not see.

'I have you John!' the detective murmured over and over, as the doctor held him so tightly around his waist and back that Sherlock was certain he would have bruises in the morning.

By the time the two men returned to Baker Street, John was so exhausted from fear and pain that he commandeered Sherlock's usually spot on the settee.

The detective left him lying there as he hurried to make some restorative tea. After a minute or so of frantic searching where he couldn't find a single tray or saucer, Sherlock snatched a clean Petri dish from his small chemistry lab on the dining table, to help balance the hot cup.

'Are you still awake?' he whispered, as he stood over a motionless John.

'I'm fine, stop worrying.' The doctor opened his eyes and smiled up at him and as if to prove his words, John sat up easily and took the cup from his hands.

'Thank you Sherlock,' he added quietly, 'Thank you for everything. I think it was fate that you decided to come. If you weren't there tonight, I am convinced that I would have had a nervous break down.'

The detective hovered about him, uncomfortable with all this gratitude.

'You would have done nothing so foolish!' Sherlock snapped in annoyance, 'You would have calmed down and remembered that your pain was psychosomatic. You would then recall that you overcame it once and would therefore do it again!'

John looked up at him sceptically as he paced around with his hands folded behind his back. It was easy to think that, now that the pain had vanished and he had stopped limping. 'I was so scared Sherlock. You were too! I saw your face!'

'I thought you had been stabbed or other!' Sherlock insisted, 'I wasn't thinking of your leg at all! How could we be so _stupid _not to anticipate this?! I assume your classmates swarmed around you, all wanting to know about your tour of duty in Afghanistan.'

'Would you believe one of those idiots wanted to know if it hurt to be shot?' John sneered in such a good likeness of the detective that Sherlock grinned from ear to ear.

'MORON!' he agreed, wishing that he could race back there and punch them all in the face for their inconsiderate stupidity. One didn't corner a man recovering from PTSD, and pepper him with questions! The class of '96 didn't know, but that was no excuse in his book! John had been so terrified by the whole ordeal that Sherlock had heard his teeth chattering together, during their entire journey home.

'Could I see your service cross award?' Sherlock then asked so unexpectedly that John spat out his mouthful of tea.

'How did you…?' John spluttered inarticulately in annoyance. 'Sherlock, have you been in my things?!'

'Lestrade told me,' he replied serenely, 'he performed a background check on you. Don't be angry. He's a very cautious man and doesn't trust easily; especially with his crime scenes. May I see it?'

Of course Lestrade hadn't told him anything he hadn't discovered for himself, but the detective was cunning enough to leave out this fact in his explanation.

The doctor looked appalled that he had been investigated but he knew he shouldn't be this surprised. A lot of extraordinary events had occurred ever since they had met.

Still distracted by the idea of a mysterious file of information about him, somewhere on the Inspector's computer, John led the way to his room, quite missing Sherlock's intense scrutiny of his gait as he walked away. He also missed the happy dance that was being performed with quiet enthusiasm behind his back.

Soon, the two friends were examining his medal for conspicuous bravery on its velvet cushion. Of course, John's natural shyness prevented him from displaying it openly, and it was usually tucked away in the bottom drawer of the dresser.

'Could I have a look at the award you received for saving Sergeant Donovan's life?'*****

John's face creased in confusion but obligingly he pulled out that box too.

'And that certificate…'

'Alright enough!' John interrupted sternly, 'Yes, everyone thinks I am bloody wonderful! I get it!'

'But you don't agree?' Sherlock pressed quietly as the man turned to walk away.

John stopped but didn't turn around to face him again.

'I am no good at this sort of thing,' Sherlock admitted fretfully, 'Maybe you can find someone in the morning to talk to.'

John sat on his bed, forcing himself not to laugh at this astounding display of humility, 'well that's too bad. It's you or nothing.'

Sherlock was a bit thrown by his expectant expression. People came to him to find out if their husband were murderers, not for problems that made them heart-sick and afraid. What could he say? He didn't believe in dwelling in the past. What was done, was done. He leaned against the bedroom wall and jammed his hands into his pockets, gathering his thoughts.

'I suspect that this is not how you imagined your life would turn out ….'

John felt his blood freeze like ice in his veins, as Sherlock unerringly zeroed in on his private thoughts like some sort of human heat seeking missile. Was it the detective standing before him or just his best mate, who for all his difficult ways had learned to read his heart forward and back?

'….but consider if you had made another choice, then this opportunity to make a difference in the world would have passed to someone else. I am sorry John but I cannot share in your regret. The whole sequence of your life has led you to me and even though this path has hurt you, I would not wish it to be undone.'

'You _are _very good at this Sherlock,' the doctor countered when he finally managed to get his voice to work again.

'Why of course. I am good at everything. Can I leave you now?' the detective enquired with an impish smile as he pushed off the wall, 'You are not going to have _another _mid-life crisis in the middle of the night, are you? I thought this only happened to old people.'

The doctor laughed softly at the man's foolishness as the detective prepared to take his leave.

'Sherlock?'

The man stopped in the act of closing the door.

'I probably don't tell you enough, but I trust that you know what a difference you make in _my_ world. '

'Perhaps I should start charging you for my good advice,' Sherlock remarked seriously.

'Good night Sherlock!'

'Good night John.'

ANote: ***** As seen in Chapter 12- Simply amazing


	20. It was an experiment

**Anote:** I was reading Sir Doyle's book _The Final Game_ from which the episode _The Great Game _was loosely based, and this what-if scenario came into my head. In the book, Sherlock had a strong premonition of the future based on his keen observation of the strange events happening around him. My chapter is set a few weeks before the events of _The Great Game_ episode.

This is for _**Humming Bird2, **_who thinks Lestrade is a wonderful character in the Sherlock universe.

Chapter 20- **It was an experiment**

'Should we call in the fire department?' Officer Donavan wondered, as she looked out of the window into the alley far below.

Lestrade glanced across at Sherlock as he happily crawled along the thick pipe, busy examining every inch with his magnifier. In the mad confusion of the moment, they had managed to get a rope around the detective's waist and the inspector twisted the opposite end securely around his arm. If the man slipped, this was the only security Sherlock would have.

'Don't bother,' he replied coolly, no stranger to this level of danger, 'He'll be done soon and Sherlock is pretty steady on his feet. Go down in the street and wait for Watson to come back. Bring him up when he gets here.'

Soon the two men were alone in the abandoned building.

Again, Lestrade shook his head in despair at the consulting detective who was oblivious to everything around him except for his search for clues. It was one thing entirely for Sherlock to have a sudden idea in the middle of a case, but another when he deliberately kept them all in the dark until it was convenient. And Sherlock _had _known all along that he was going to open the window and crawl out on the ledge, because he had waited only a fraction of a second longer than it took for John to leave the room.

Suddenly, the detective stood erect, perfectly balanced on the curved surface like some sort of over dressed ballet dancer.

'Anything?' Lestrade called out hopefully.

The sulky look on the man's face said it all.

'Alright, well don't stand there in the wind like that. Slide across,' the Inspector beckoned to him, leaning out the large window to take hold of his arm as soon as he was close enough.

Obediently, Sherlock crouched down and carefully moved to the right, confidently taking hold of Lestrade's hand to pull him to safety. However, he squawked in surprise, as the inspector unexpectedly twisted the end of the rope around his body, effectively immobilising him.

'Don't get too excited. I just want to talk,' Lestrade explained, as he picked up the man at the shoulders and propped him on the window ledge.

'What is the meaning of this?!' Sherlock hissed in outrage to be trussed up like the chicken for Sunday dinner, 'Untie me this instant!'

The inspector calmly ignored this directive as he pulled up a dilapidated step ladder and made it into a seat. He had been having a mental debate with himself for the last five minutes as to whether to stick his nose into other people's private business. He still hadn't decided if this was such a good idea.

'I may be overstepping myself here,' the man confessed unsurely, not at all bothered by the way Sherlock's eyes glittered malevolently at him.

'…you most certainly are!' the detective reassured him in a cutting voice.

'If you don't _shut it__, _I will gag you! I want to talk to you about John.'

Very few people in the world were as observant as Sherlock, but Lestrade could not miss the way the man in front of him abruptly changed colour from fiery red, to bone white. Lestrade stored this extreme reaction for examination later.

'What about John?' the other asked in a dismissive voice.

Lestrade scowled at Sherlock disappointingly. The man didn't even know he had done something wrong.

'Now I know you and Watson have some sort of …system…' Lestrade began.

A system that to his eyes, seemed to consist of John's patience getting a vigorous work out each day.

'…but the way you sent him on that red herring to get him to leave the room, was wrong. You don't do that to the people you care about and respect. What are you going to tell him when he comes back? He's not stupid.'

'He was stupid enough to go,' Sherlock replied with a sneer.

'Because he trusts you!' the older man explained patiently, 'A trust that is going to rapidly evaporate if you do that again. He's not a saint. You push him too far and you won't have to worry about him coming back to spoil your fun. He won't come back! Do you understand what will happen if you carry on like this?'

'Why do you _care_?!' Sherlock shouted peevishly, not appreciating this humiliating dress down.

'Because!'

Sherlock narrowed his eyes hostilely.

'….because you are only useful to me at the top of your game, and you're only that way when John is with you.'

The detective's lip curled in a reluctant grin.

'I appreciate your honesty. In return, I will answer your question.'

'What?'

'Not what, _why__._ Why did I do that to John? It was an experiment.'

Lestrade threw his hands in the air in frustration.

'You're impossible!'

Sherlock laughed quietly as he twisted his head to look out at the city that was spread out around them. It was a clear sunny day and you could see straight down to the river and to the bridge.

'She's beautiful today isn't she?' he murmured wistfully.

'Tell me more about this experiment?' Lestrade inquired. He was starting to get a nervous feeling in his gut. Sherlock was a bit socially inept at times, but this was a little out there, even for him.

_TBC…_


	21. My greatest strength

…**continued**

Chapter 21- **My greatest strength**

A strange look of anguish flickered across Sherlock's face for just a moment, before it settled into its usual impassive mask. 'I was trying to determine how rapidly I could get John to leave my side. You see, he's a very loyal person which is convenient, _most _of the time. Very few people would follow my lead so faithfully. Do you think that's just his personality or a remnant of the war?'

'Maybe a bit of both.'

Sherlock agreed with a murmur.

'Why do you want John to leave you?'

And here the detective fell completely silent. It was clear that he had said all that he had to say on the matter.

Lestrade followed his gaze, trying to see what he saw. London _was_ beautiful today but only from a distance.

In the tranquil silence that followed, the inspector's mind drifted towards some of the case files he had been studying that morning. Strange and disturbing patterns were forming in the criminal behaviour of their country's capital city. Suspects were being bailed out and murdered on an increasing basis. The homeless people were moving together in packs. There was a palpable sense of fear even among hardened criminals that normally wouldn't flinch. It was like the whole of the underworld was holding its breath.

Lestrade glanced at Sherlock sharply. Had the man also seen these signs?!

Oh hell. Of course he had!

Without a doubt Sherlock had seen the pattern and now, he was suddenly interested in learning how quickly he could ditch John in a pinch, which made for an obvious conclusion. Danger was coming and either it was directly coming in Sherlock's direction or Sherlock was going out to meet it. Knowing John as he did, Sherlock was already aware the doctor would never leave his side in either scenario. Now if this conclusion was true, then today's episode was not about Sherlock wanting to escape a scolding as he looked for clues on a dangerous bit of pipe, high above the ground!

For the love of ….!

Sherlock always did this! He _never _asked anyone for help preferring to rely on himself alone. Would he accept help now? The inspector believed he would, especially if John's safety was being called into a question. It wasn't obvious to everyone, but the inspector had known the man for a long time; long enough to realise that Sherlock felt responsible for the small doctor.

Lestrade reached out one hand and forcefully turned Sherlock's face towards him.

'Use me.'

'I beg your pardon?'

'Use me,' Lestrade repeated, 'You don't need to run this experiment again. When the time comes and you are finding it difficult to separate yourself from John, you can use me. I can be the proverbial ace up the sleeve, as the Americans say. I _would_ appreciate if you could cook up a scenario that is legal but if not…still call me. I will come.'

He could see the moment of panicked realisation in the man's eyes, when Sherlock comprehended that the inspector had pulled all the facts together.

'There may not be much time,' Sherlock murmured breathlessly, torn between relief that he had found a willing and competent ally, and the natural unease in sharing a closely guarded secret.

'There never is. What's going on here, Sherlock?'

The consultant's nostrils flared in heated annoyance, '_Someone_ is interfering in my cases! Come man….you must have seen the signs!'

Lestrade had observed that look of challenge on Sherlock' face before, and it never turned out well for the person who had put it there.

'Are you sure you want to do this, Sherlock? John's not that bad in a fight.'

'Don't be stupid. John is absolutely the worse fighter that I have ever encountered!' Sherlock snorted in disgust, 'I am strongly considering dragging him to the boxing gymnasium to spar. You should come too. Your lady friend is feeding you up too much.'

'Wife.'

'What?'

'She's my wife, not a lady friend. Christ, you were at the wedding Sherlock! And I would love to come and spar with you. I would never pass on the opportunity to knock you senseless.'

'Whatever,' Sherlock replied in a bored voice, as he closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the wall. 'Do not misunderstand me. It's not that I don't think John is capable. John uses a cool head, iron nerve and a decidedly deadly aim to keep us out of danger. He _is _my greatest strength, but at the same time, my greatest vulnerability which I am certain that my clever opponent lurking in the shadows has figured out. I feel in the deepest part of my being that this is something I must face alone.'

The other man nodded his head reluctantly. Sherlock was neither the first nor the last agent in the protective services to feel the bitter terror of balancing family with a dangerous job. Although he believed that Sherlock was wrong in this instance, it wasn't his place to interfere in the man's decision.

'So we're agreed,' Lestrade said, 'one of us gets John to safety and then …we'll deal with whatever needs doing.'

Sherlock opened his eyes and stared at him thoughtfully.

'Why are you looking at me like that?' Lestrade growled angrily, 'John barely survived Afghanistan. Do you really think I am going to stand by and let something happen to him in London of all places?! Not on my watch!'

The inspector had given voice to the quiet belief Sherlock carried around in his heart. Their friend, John Watson had already spilled enough of his blood in service to his country, and not one drop more should go into the ground, not until the long years of his life were behind him.

'You're a good man Lestrade. I would offer to shake your hand …'

'WHAT THE BLUE BLAZES IS GOING ON HERE!_' _John bellowed angrily as he stormed inside.

'You're in trouble now,' Sherlock sniggered quietly under his breath; smiling brightly as his personal Calvary rode in.

The small man that they had been discussing so warmly for the last couple of minutes, stormed up to Lestrade vibrating with anger. As the inspector calmly rose to his feet, he looked down at the infuriated man, raising a surprised eyebrow as the doctor shook a menacing fist up at him.

'Steady John,' Sherlock said soothingly, 'You have misread the situation. I have gotten myself a bit tangled up, and the inspector has kindly offered his assistance.'

A look of understanding passed between the two taller men, as Lestrade proceeded to unwind the rope.

However, the good doctor could not be convinced and in the end, Sherlock had been forced to hook a gentle arm around John's shoulders to pull him away.

**Anote**: Just so that no one is confused with the chapter. Sherl of course, didn't ask Lestrade for help as he chose to wait for John to go out for tea with Sarah, before arranging to meet Moriaty by the swimming pool. Hope its all clear now.


End file.
